


Beta Leonis, the star at the opposite of Regulus

by KaneNogami



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: BAMF Regulus Black, Decent Dursley family, Gen, Harry potter goes by another name because he doesn't want to be a fucking pawn, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Regulus and Blaise are step-brothers because it's an excellent cover story, Regulus' adventures in being 11 again, Slytherin Ginny Weasley, Slytherin Harry Potter, Slytherin Hermione Granger, Slytherin Ron Weasley, Time Travel Fix-It
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-03
Updated: 2020-12-06
Packaged: 2021-03-09 05:29:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 13
Words: 56,477
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27359560
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KaneNogami/pseuds/KaneNogami
Summary: Leonis Grey-Zabini, step-brother to Blaise Zabini, pureblood (rumored), tends to fall asleep quite easily. A bit on the sick side, face pale and eyes distant. Has the habit of scratching at his left forearm when stressed, as if there was something bothering him underneath his skin."Aim for greatness, always."Witty, capable of casting wandless magic, always one step in front of everyone, and excellent at potions thanks to an old friend who grades him quite terribly nowadays. He doesn't have an attitude, okay?// Time travel fix-it AU in which Regulus makes a pact with Death."You cannot change the past, only fix the future."He would have done without going through seven years at Hogwarts again though.
Relationships: Hermione Granger & Pansy Parkinson & Ron Weasley, Pansy Parkinson & Ginny Weasley, Regulus Black & Blaise Zabini, Regulus Black & Hermione Granger & Harry Potter & Ron Weasley, Regulus Black & Severus Snape
Comments: 60
Kudos: 161





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> It's 2am, idk how this happened. I just had this picture of Regulus getting a second change and making sure things are better this time around.  
> also, saving his brother from death, yay great plan.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Edit: ▲ ▲ ▲ now means a change of pov, sorry if it was a bit jarring to follow before!

The compartment, shaking a bit as the train goes on, pursuing a journey which is always the same, is the sole place where the boy finds a hint of reprieve. He pretends not to notice that another person is already inside, asleep in the corner next to the window, robe used as a makeshift blanket. Gabriel rubs his cheek, where his mother left an unwanted kiss—a proof of affection among others, a bit too rough to be fully convincing to either of them. Whatever. He sits down, glancing at the stranger who doesn't even stir. Must have been exhausted, to fall asleep so soon after departure. Or perhaps the train had prior stops? Gabriel doesn't remember anything like that mentioned inside his books. 

Before he can think further about it, the door slides open on a kid who makes an apologetic gesture with both hands upon spotting his sleeping companion. 

"Hey, can I sit with you, the whole train's packed?" 

"Oh, sure," he whispers, moving a bit so his newfound companion can sit by his side. They have enough space not to be glued to each other, therefore it's fine. 

"I'm Ron Weasley, you?" It's obvious the boy is making a great effort to avoid being loud. He can respect that. 

"Gabriel Dursley," a bit odd against his tongue still. His mother warned him about names and the weight they carry. 

  
  


('I loved my sister, Gaby, a shame I wasn't able to mend my relationship with her due to my own stupidity and how stubborn she was.' 

The kitchen holds countless secrets and conversations in hushed tones. He likes these moments now that he's allowed to. That asking about his biological parents isn't a crime and they weren't drunk and driving in the middle of a cold night.

He's mad about that lie. Will always be.

Good thing that Petunia shares the feeling.)

  
  


Questions are not to be pushed onto others, unless you want the favor to be returned. He thinks about his birth name, the power it holds. How it could crush him in one blow too. Fingers brush against his forehead, faded scar almost invisible, an odd line who lost its power years ago. 

"First year too?" He remembers a family of redheads, that boy among them. A bit late, and his parents scoffed. A bit judgmental, a bit unfair. They are working on that, on not hating. His mother squeezed his shoulder too hard, when they went through the barrier together—she watched it all with the eyes of a squib who won't get to be a part of this world. 

  
  


('I loved my sister, but on some days, oh on some days I truly loathed her. That's how it is sometimes, between siblings. Venom and bad decisions mixing into what I didn't want to say and couldn't take back, now finish your tea and help me with the dishes.'

She ruffles his hair, awkwardly, nails brushing against his scalp. For once, he feels at home in the house. The suffocating sensation has lessened. And when it returns, he can open the window of his own bedroom—all his!

_He should aim for more than that._ )

  
  


"Yep, I have way too many older siblings. Some on this train," he mumbles, holding a sandwich between his hands, "urg, I wanted an egg one, I hate corn beef." 

"I have a brother, a bit older. Not a wizard," Gaby replies, tote bag sliding off his shoulder as he starts to pull out tupperwares and various delights wrapped in foil, "I have some egg salad if you want, and yeah another fork—plastic though." 

He makes a face, aware it'll probably break, before handing it to the boy alongside the plastic box. He stares, a bit dumbfounded, at this stranger willing to share his lunch. 

"You're a muggle? I mean your parents are?" 

"That's weird?" 

"Nah, mate—It's not what I meant!" 

"Cool. My mom's a squib, dad is the most muggle guy you'll ever meet, and Dudley sure is my brother," his exasperated chuckle is enough for Ron to crack a smile. Right before he starts to thank him for the salad.

  
  


('Harry Potter, that's how the goblin called me,' the child whispers, holding his aunt's hand like a lifeline, 'It's my last name?' His forehead is pulsing, puke having been vanquished from his clothes yet the smell remains, 'Are we going home?'

'Hush, boy.' 

Boy.That's all he is—was, he isn't sure. Usually she avoids his touch, blaming germs and bad hygiene on his part, which isn't even true! It's Dudley who ate mud as a dare not him. 

Yet, she isn't letting go. And her free hand is pressing against his shoulder, guiding him through the crowd. 

'You're a _Dursley_ , child.')

  
  


When the trolley rolls in, they do not order anything. 

"My parents think it would be a complete waste of money, which is—kinda true since I have chocolate frogs packed in my trunk already. A whole bag. I got way too much during our last trip to Diagon Alley," he groans, remembering his allowance getting destroyed as he let his cravings for sweets get the better of him. 

  
  


('You have to share or I'm telling!' 

'Chill, Dud, I planned on giving you some,' they are bruises and elbows in ribs, playful banter sometimes taken too far. There are days where Dudley craves to own the whole world, and is insufferable. Gabriel doesn't want a repetition of the past, of siblings hating each other to the point of one dying without a goodbye.

'You're alright, sometimes,' is the reply he gets as they sit together on the porch of a house which once held the worst inside of its walls. 

Goblins send people, from time to time. Each visit ends up with Petunia looking displeased as they sit inside her kitchen for tea and biscuits. 'These ugly robes, the way they act', she mumbles, 'don't become like that' . 

And Gabriel nods, unsure of what she means.)

  
  


As they share an improvised picnic, which is in insight delicious, albeit not quite practical when the train takes sharp turns without a warning, Gabriel discovers that Ron has many little stories to share. 

"My brothers have this ridiculous tale—like, they've told me you have to fight a troll to be sorted," he snorts, plastic fork already broken and a lot shorter than before, "My lil' sister and I pretend to believe them, because it's tradition but I know you simply wear a talking hat on your head."

"Sounds—not very hygienic," years of living with Petunia have taught Gaby to value clean surroundings with the help of kind sentences such as 'Dudley and Gabriel James Dursley if you do not remove your shoes immediately you're grounded for two weeks'.

"Didn't think about that part, to be honest—it's mental though, a hat who looks into your mind? A bit scary too. Wouldn't want it to know my wildest secrets or something."

Ron looks oddly serious for an eleven years old whose biggest secret is probably not that dramatic. 

Gabriel, who knows these people will definitely call his birth name during the ceremony can't really relate. 

"Me neither!" 

At least his newfound friend hasn't mentioned Harry Potter or anything. Would be annoying to have to lie so quickly. 

"House wise what do you expect though—you know about them, right mate?" Ron blushes when embarrassed, putting the back of his hand in front of his mouth as if he was worried of spilling secrets suddenly. 

"I do, no idea of where I'll end up, you?" 

"Ah, whole family's made of lions, you see. Me? I—I'm unsure." 

While a train ride to boarding school is technically an excellent place to have an introspection on yourself, Gabriel isn't talented at people stuff. He can listen, absorb information and keep it somewhere for later, like Vernon does when he has an idea for a brand-new concept for his clients during dinner. Storage, that's the easy part. Taking the words out, classifying them depending on emotions, not his cup of tea. 

  
  


('The way we've raised you until you turned six was less than adequate,' Petunia offers as she stands in front of his room, laundry basket underneath an arm as he's packing, 'however the following years were better.'

A bitter part of him wants to claim it's not enough. That it'll never be enough to erase the cupboard they destroyed so the reminder wouldn't send Gabriel into apathy and long silences. He folds robes and other pieces of clothing one after another, refusing to turn around.

'Why are you telling me this, mom?' 

She is his mother. In the same way—they have built a family out of this, tearing down old wallpapers and purging blood wards charged with negative magic meant to cause the opposite. In a way, Gabriel believes they became a family out of spite, because it's who they are. 

'A reminder. This will always be your home, whatever they tell you.'

They. The wizards. Always a us versus them situation, no matter how hard he tries to be both. He knows that the wards weren't meant to be malicious, at least it's what he has been told. His parents think differently though. And, some days, when his magic wants to burst out his body and shatter glass and walls, he's willing to believe them, if just for a bit. 

'I'll be back for break, if I don't Dudley will take the train to Hogwarts to drag me back himself,' he grins, contemplating his perfectly folded clothes in the trunk. Oh, as soon they put it in the car, all this hard work will be destroyed, but for now, it's enough.

She sits on the floor by his side, helping with what's left, the laundry basket forgotten on the bed and that's the closest to 'I love you' they're able to reach. 

He won't pretend he isn't emotionally scarred by the lies, the fact he's supposed to be a hero when he's a boy who lost one family and was almost rejected by the second just because someone caused blood wards to feed on the hatred trapped in his forehead until—)

  
  


"Nothing wrong with walking a different path," a voice laced with sleep replies for Gabriel. He stares, taken aback by the black locks and tired eyes of the student who slowly sits up properly. There is a cracking sound, probably his back, as he offers them both a simple nod, "May I?" 

Realizing he is holding his hand out, palm open, towards the brownies that his mom baked for him the evening before, Gabriel blurts out an awkward yes. Because if he is offering his food to one, why not to the other—that's why he is glad nobody else is sharing the compartment with him. 

After drinking from a water bottle, the plastic kind that you find in muggle shops, the boy—Gabriel takes into account his oversized sweatshirt, muted red, and how it clashes with his skin, so pale it makes him appear a bit unwell. Sickness would explain why he spent most of the journey sleeping. 

"As I was saying, no house is wrong or right. The hat might even listen," his sleeves are so long they cover his fingers as he grabs a brownie, munching on it with fake disinterest, "if you bear your request to it."

"Mate, you could at least introduce yourself before lecturing us," Ronald sounds a bit sour, although it's quick to go away, "I would like Ravenclaw, they have an amazing chess club, even if my brothers laughed when I suggested it. Apparently I lack the stick up my ass for it to work." 

The nameless boy lets out a chuckle, whereas Gabriel chokes on his brownie. Very cool, excellent first impression. 

"I swear, people have expectations for each house and they are ridiculous! Ravenclaw and you're an ass who is obsessed with studying, Hufflepuff means you're not really good at anything, Gryffindor is for hot-heated idiots and Slytherin is—" 

"For blood purists and muggle haters," the kid finishes for them, brownie long gone. He is leaning against the seat, fingers slithering underneath his left sleeve, as if he was looking for something against his skin. 

"Yeah, I guess..."

"That's ridiculous," Gabriel mumbles while gulping on as much water as possible to chase the chocolate chips at the back of his throat, "how could you define someone with only one thing? " 

"Many people believe in that stuff." 

"Your family does, Ron?" 

"I wouldn't go that far, but they would be damn mad if I ended in Slytherin. Or at least worried. In an angry way?" 

"Sounds like bullshit to me," still-without-a-name says, nails rasping against the skin of his arm. Although Gabriel cannot see the gesture, he guesses it, used to observe people. 

Shoulders slumped, Ronald doesn't have anything to say in return. As he would do with Dudley, Gabriel slams their shoulders together. 

"I won't mind, wherever you end. We can still be friends. If you want to."

"Really? Thanks mate."

He beams like the Christmas garlands Vernon always gets tangled in. That's a bit too much, for Gabriel and his quiet world with his brother and parents. Not many friends, no real need for them. 

Sometimes, he wonders if having a piece of a murderer' soul inside his head did some damage which can't be undone. That or the cupboard. Or the wizards who left him on a porch with a blanket and a letter and nothing else. Ah, shitty circumstances. 

"What about you?" 

He blinks at the question, not truly having considered houses. Okay, he has. More than once. There is no answer which seems to fit with him. His parents were lions, yet he cannot picture Vernon or Petunia in it. Ah, children don't have to follow their parents' footsteps. 

"Hufflepuff?" he sounds so unsure that's ridiculous. 

Before he can add something brighter, the door slams open, with a girl stepping in without hesitation. 

"Has anyone seen—Oh, I found him!" 

Immediately her demeanor switches from focused to relieved as she gestures towards another kid to get in. 

"Meddling with strangers once again, hm." 

"Brother, I lost track of you, my apologies. Must have been when you started to talk about Hogwart's history, leaving me bored to death."

Letting out a sigh, the newcomer turns towards Gabriel and Ron. 

"Pleasure to meet you, I'm Blaise Zabini, and this is Hermione Granger, my newfound friend. I hope my brother wasn't too much of a bother." 

Extending his leg, said brother attempts a light kick into his shin. Only for it to fail. Gabriel recognizes the trick from countless fast food sorties with Dudley. If anything, he'd say that Blaise gives out a proper external impression, back straight and robes already on. The girl is also ready for their arrival, which either means they got changed early or Ron and him got to hurry up. 

"We were having a fascinating conversation over houses," still as pale as a sheet, the boy gets up, and for a moment Gabriel is worried he'll crash back down. He doesn't though. Probably thanks to his brother offering his hand. 

He notes the hesitation, quick to vanish behind his eyes, before he accepts the gesture.

"Whatever you wish for, I hope you'll get what you seek," is Blaise's reply. He does sound a bit calculating, in Gabriel's opinion. It's in the way he accesses them for a second, the smile tugging at the corner of his lips—"I aim for Slytherin myself."

"Ravenclaw here," Hermione chimes in, hands tugging at her robes as if she had waited for the right moment to speak, "if only for the fact the ceiling is made of stars. Must be fascinating to watch."

"Right? My brothers are stupid when they say it's a boring house. Ronald Weasley by the way... But you can call me Ron! Everyone does."

The awkwardness of the five pre-teens crammed into the compartment is palpable. Gabriel finds it sort of pleasant, as if—it makes his chest warmth somehow. A sensation which happens with his family from time to time, and which also went through his body when he held his wand in the shop. He enjoys it. 

"If you're in Ravenclaw, Ron, I'd love to study with you."

"Erm, sure."

Not enthusiastic about studying then? Gabriel gets it. Or rather, he understands and values curiosity, without finding much interest in schoolwork. A bland recollection of lessons heard over and over lacks sense, and doesn't serve anybody especially for details which won't be studied ever again. 

As he misses some bits of the conversation between Ron and Hermione, the latter apparently signing up for free chess classes from his new friend, he can't help but glance at the boy whose name he still doesn't know. 

"Would you mind—" 

"Hm?" 

Ah, from his expression, innocence plastered over his face like paint, it's obvious that the other is having an excellent time avoiding the topic. 

Blaise signs.

"Leonis Zabini, introductions are always in order—" 

"You're named after a star?" Apparently Hermione is talented at interrupting people mid-sentence. Which, even if it's not done on purpose, is a tad aggravating. Widened eyes stare at the boy in awe. "Leo is composed of several stars with Leonis in their name—even the brightest, Alpha Leonis, who is also called—"

"Regulus," he finishes for her, head tilted to the side, expression unreadable. 

"Exactly!" Her feet are almost bouncing on the floor, excitation shivering alongside her magic inside her core. 

"My middle name is Deneb, from Denebola," his voice has gotten quieter, although nobody seems to notice. 

"The star at the opposite of Regulus then, Beta Leonis." 

"Is Astronomy your favorite subject?" Ron offers while helping Gabriel to pack what's left of their meal into the tote bag. 

"I have only studied it by myself, via books or just by gazing at the stars, therefore it's more of a hobby. At my grandparents', in a tiny village without much electricity outside you can see them so clearly in Summer, it's... Ah, I got a bit sidetracked..." 

There is something in her demeanor, in the same way Ron's gaze flickered earlier, which leaves Gabriel thinking she has been told to shut up for sharing her thoughts before. Relatable, albeit sad. 

"Blimey, that's cool stuff! Don't apologize—" 

He joins Ronald's encouragements with a nod. Hogwarts mustn't separate them, that would be a shame. At school, Gabriel struggled with wishing to interact with others, mostly due to the monstrosity in his forehead not having been removed yet and the immediate disdain his presence seemed to produce each time he walked towards a group of children. Now that he is better that his mind is less of a buzzing mess, why not make friends? 

"There is a park, right? Let's watch the stars together, no matter where we are sorted." 

The proposal is met with enough enthusiasm for an older student to tell them to get ready instead of causing a ruckus. 

As Hermione departs with Blaise and his brother, Leonis turns around, leaning against the door to offer them a tired smile.

"Aim for greatness, always."

"Don't Slytherin them so early on," Blaise scolds, dragging him away. 

Once left alone, Ron and Gabriel exchange a glance before bursting out laughing. They aren't certain of why, it simply feels right. The tension of the ride is evaporating. Wherever they go, they are ready now. 

  
▲ ▲ ▲

(In another compartment, Blaise tugs on his step-brother' sleeve glaring at the deep marks on the inside of his left arm. 'Stop scratching it, there is nothing underneath your skin.' 'If that were that easy, I would have ceased my antics years ago,' is the icy reply he gets, Leonis removing his sweatshirt, so muggle-like, so rebellious, so like another person named after a star in a different life, to grab his robes.

He wants to go back to sleep.)  
  


The castle is magnificent, and what is even better is the lake and its surface barely moving under them in darkness. The lanterns onto the boats seem to dance in mid-air, gently pushed by the wind. No one falls inside the deep water, although a boy with a reddened arm lets his fingers dance across the surface, not fearing whatever is underneath the surface. 

(Drowning and whatever can't be worse than the first time around) 

  
▲ ▲ ▲

While the first years, a bunch of students akin to ducklings following their professor around anxiously and cackling at each other, enter the Great Hall, their eyes are immediately drawn towards the ceiling above them. That's such a warm welcome that they cannot help but be home already, even if some are not quite used to their first robes, or new skin, yet. 

Ghosts are quite a show, one which frightens some and amazes others. In the end, they are to stand in a line, awaiting judgment. Standing right behind Hermione, Leonis side-steps just enough for him to see properly what's happening as the dance starts. That's an easy trial, put on the hat on your head and bam you might lose your whole family for seven years and whatever is to follow. 

"I wonder how complex is that charm above us," she whispers to herself, mind already wandering through possibilities. How she'd have liked for her parents to be present, if only to see her success at something properly. When she was in second grade, she tripped on the wire of the microphone her teacher was using to call for students, and faceplanted into the ground. When she left primary school, her classmates were still laughing about it. This time though—

"Aim for even higher than that," Leonis replies, without explaining what he means. He doesn't seem like the type to do so. Nor he has judged her for being a muggleborn unlike that terrible kid with his two friends who mocked her for trying to sit with them. Luckily Blaise saved the day, dragging her away in the quest for her brother.

The song is mostly lost on her, which is a shame as the hat probably worked hard on it. She is busy staring at the sky and everything else, spinning around slowly, even the back way Leonis is scratching at his arm. 

"Stressed?" 

"Hm, only a bit. You?" 

"Absolutely terrified," she confesses. 

Once she's at the front, all eyes will be on her, prying, finding weak points to exploit later. What if she is unable to be sorted? Could students be rejected after making it that far? That would be awful. 

"Keep your chin up, straighten your back, give them nothing, they don't matter." 

She gasps softly at the instructions, surprised by how serious he sounds suddenly. There was no warning, only a gleam in his eyes as he offers a solemn expression. As if he had been through that before. 

Impossible, right? 

"Dursley, Gabriel." 

First of them on the list, about that—

"Isn't your name Zabini like your brother?" 

"Officially it's Grey-Zabini, which is why I'm behind you. Step-siblings and all."

"Oh, that makes sense." 

The hat seems to be taking its sweet time to pick a house for Gabriel, which isn't that interesting to the remaining students waiting more or less patiently for their turn. If anything, Hermione would like for him to ge seated already so she could go—

"SLYTHERIN."

The applause is mild, at best. It's better than nothing and Gabriel doesn't seem to struggle to sit among the snakes. 

"Wicked," she hears Leonis behind her, as the list goes on. Does that mean he intends on going to Slytherin too? What if she's alone in Ravenclaw? What if she's not and by changing she causes Ronald to be alone instead? That's more than she can handle and she has to remind herself of the 'back straight, chin up, show nothing' lesson. 

"Granger, Hermione."

Far below in the line, the rude boy from earlier is snickering and pointing at her. She can do this. 

She cannot do this. 

Is it too late to leave? Definitely. Inhaling deeply, she walks to the stool, sitting down without failing. First step, done. 

Her sorting is even longer than Gabriel, much to her dismay. The hat isn't talented at conversation as much as it enjoys twisting parts of her mind and thoughts to learn more about her. 

"SLYTHERIN."

Now, Malfoy seems speechless—that's all she notices, alongside Leonis' smile as she goes to sit next to Gabriel. He immediately offers her a cup of water she empties like a shark whale would. Here, that feels a lot better. 

Not the best house for muggleborns, her mind whispers, and she snarls back, then I'll turn it into a home myself. 

Deep in thought, she almost misses the voice trying to get her attention. 

"Is this seat taken?" 

"Leonis!" 

Three of them, only two left. She waits, sitting between the boys. The rude kid getting sorted into her house is a bit of a letdown although she'll have to deal with it. 

"Potter, Harry." 

Whispers invade the Great Hall, as the name is met by no one coming forward. This seems to cause quite a turmoil, even among the adults who stare at each other, until the professor in charge goes to the next student. By her side, Gabriel breathes out in relief, and she's too focused on her own glee at being by his side to pay attention. 

Soon, enough a handful of kids are left, the line having dissolved into something lacking order, Zabini and Weasley apparently taking bets on where they'll end. 

"Weasley, Ronald."

"Gryffindor, I'm calling it," Malfoy mocks, while his friends laugh at this joke which isn't one. Nothing wrong with any house, she wants to remind him. 

"SLYTHERIN." 

The hall falls into a terrifying silence. A Weasley in Slytherin is apparently enough for common sense to be lost along the way. Among the silence, Leonis sighs, rising up for a lone standing ovation. He claps brightly, gesturing for Ron to come towards them. A bunch of kids protest at the Gryffindor table, not that Ronald seems to hear. 

He locks his eyes on Leonis, and one step after another starts moving. Hermione and Gabriel, a bit late, get up to clap too. He's as pale as a sheet, she notes, feeling terrible on his behalf. That's why—Hermione knows herself, she's overbearing, awfully boring and bad at listening to others. She's mean without meaning to, explaining like a know-it-all, as she was called all her life. She's also a loner, not by choice, often a bit melancholy, relinquishing in the moments where she creates her own world. 

"Welcome home," she tells him, loudly, covering the mocking voices from their own table, "Ron." 

"Thanks," he whispers, flopping next to her, as Leonis moves on the side so he is sandwiched between them. As for the nonsense of their fellow first years, the prefects are quick to put an end to it. 

"In retrospect my sorting was awfully boring and bland," Blaise tells them later, sitting next to Leonis as the food starts to fill the table, "Weasley stole the show."

"Mate, trust me, next year you can be the star if you want," he replies, still a bit uneasy, "my sister won't care, if anything she'll be excited that she can go wherever she wants, but my parents... Urg." 

His brothers' voices have long died down, but he still turns around to check for them at their table. What if they hate him? Before anybody can comfort him, his shoulders relax a bit, and they follow his gaze to see three boys waving and making 'okay' gestures with their hands. They do seem displeased, to some extend, but not angry. 

Oh. 

"I thought they would insult me or something, merlin..." Relief helps him to accept the food the four others put on his plate one after another. 

"Sometimes, your family is wrong, your choices are yours only."

"My brother, so wise as usual."

"One of us has to be Blaise. And since you—ow my leg."

Hermione thinks that she's going to fit into Slytherin just right. And so are they. 

  
  
  



	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for your kudos!  
> I have no idea where this fic is going but here we go.

"Last names only," are the first words from Pansy to her roommate; she got the muggleborn (her brain comes up with the worst first, now is not the place she replies.) and she has no time for nonsense. At least this one won't get in the way, no need for courtships and decayed rules. By that point, the lines between the remaining pure families are so close they sometimes cross. Pansy ignores it. She's the third daughter, a burden at worst, an interesting bargain at best. Her existence is 'not the heir her parents wanted', nothing more. For all she crawls to Draco' side joking at his offending words and misplaced pride, she is still a snake, "Granger."

Disappointment isn't her problem. She has dealt with enough of that already. Thus, she unpacks her trunk, glaring and mumbling without kindness at the pretty robes her parents got her without caring about them being practical or comfortable. She knows some charms, not enough, yet she'll persevere until everything is shaped in the way she wants.

Unlike her, Granger mostly has books. Old and new ones alike, pilling up in the space between them. She watches without much interest; none of those won't teach her to behave the right way. How could she, raised among muggles? Oh, to think about friendship bracelets and first names is enough to twist Pansy's face into something unpleasant. She's eleven, and she feels like she's watching a toddler hoarding toys she doesn't understand.

The hat did say Slytherin for the other girl too. Loud and clear.

Draco mocked the decision, like he joked about the hat being broken after Weasley' sorting. Honestly, she shares the feeling. Not the consequences. Due to the casual negligence of the school regarding their culture—of teachers looking down on the snakes just because some of their parents were monsters—she believes they should show a semblance of unity. Still, to do that with a mudbloo—urg.

She slithers closer, wand into her hand. Slytherin is politics and lies, bonds forged in blood, old promises running through generations.

Pansy hesitates, her first mistake, although she has to calculate her next move. She planned on playing nasty only with outsiders. On one hand, Granger is one. She shouldn't be there. On the other hand, the same can be said about Weasley or the Zabini bastard. She stands there, unmoving, inhaling sharply as her heart is pulsing too fast inside her chest.

When the girl turns around, eyes widening in what Pansy supposes is fear, she snarls.

"I necessitate sleep in the morning, therefore, if you're an early riser you better know Lumos instead of lighting the whole room," the lie comes easily enough. Stunning the person she has to share a room with for a whole year would be a mistake.

She is infuriated at the remaining girls immediately making pairs, leaving her on her own. Pansy is unpleasant, she is aware. None of these idiots are better, outside of the half-blood she knows nothing of, scheming to find husbands and fame in one way or another. They are kids, they shouldn't have to do these things, Pansy knows.

She knows so much, without being able to do anything properly.

Hesitantly, Granger grabs her wand, casting a faint Lumos which isn't too terrible. Hey, at least she studied at home a bit before coming to Hogwarts. That's already more than what Pansy expected. Muggle parents are terrible magic-haters—the rhetoric is too simple, mirroring what muggleborns are told about purebloods.

She flickers her wrist, displaying the proper gesture.

"Lumos. I had a tutor, that's one of the first spells I've learned. Don't let yourself be at a disadvantage among us, you'll have to catch up."

Among Gryffindors, that wouldn't have been a problem. Here, it's different. Repeating the gesture, a frown deepening her face, Granger casts a slightly better lighting charm. Of course, Lumos is easier than, let's say Wingardium Leviosa, who requires your whole core to transfer your magic into an object or a person if you're talented enough.

"Thank you, Parkinson."

Oh no. Nope. Pansy is not dealing with kindness or friendship and even less with the curious gleam in Granger's eyes. She has no time to waste playing teacher for a girl who shouldn't be there.

What's the harm in making an ally though? That's how she should view the situation, instead of being selfish and angry for no good reason. If Granger is on her side, she can get Zabini's approval. Blaise, not his bastard brother, which could be useful later on. Why is it so damn complicated? All these rules and plans she has to craft to protect herself. Lowering her arm, somewhat in defeat, Pansy drops her wand on the bed to find something inside her trunk.

It's a tad old, corners bruised from having been read so often—oh the contents will offend Granger deeply. After all, it's a book for Pansy's kind, filled with everything young Purebloods must know. Ah, she has that since she can read. It's with that book she learned how, in fact. Sighing, she hands it out to Granger.

"Learn. This way, you'll be able to blend in." Before relenting her grip to Granger, she licks her lips, hesitant, "That won't change who you are. However, it'll leave less openings."

"Why are you doing this? I mean, it must be for Slytherin, so I don't—embarrass anybody. But I'm sure they have a similar book in the library or—"

"Trust me, they don't. It's considered too dark for the curriculum. Hm, perhaps they do have a couple of books on blood purity from our point of view in the restricted section though... I simply doubt it," she lets go, Granger stepping back with her prized possession. Ah, she better return it fast.

"It'll upset me, to read that."

"Definitely. Only keep the parts you find interesting, such as customs, disregard the rest, it's not my problem. I need you not to be a burden, that's all."

Why does she sound so much like her father and his stern gaze, big hands pressing against her shoulders, stopping her from saying anything? Pansy sighs, feeling a bit dramatic, before going back to unpacking.

It's only later, once they have changed and climbed into their beds, when Granger bids her a good night, that she feels a familiar bitterness inside of her stomach.

Ah, at least this one won't hex her while she's asleep. Better than the other purebloods.

▲ ▲ ▲   
  


Ron is relieved, when morning comes and the world is still there. He dreamed of parents storming inside the school, berating him for getting sent into the wrong place, threatening to take him home as punishment. All he sees in the darkness of the room is the bed in front of his, an impressive number of blankets on top of a sleeping form. He got to room with Leonis, as Blaise and Gabriel are both light sleepers and well, they are not.

Stones are freezing against his soles, and he groans before making his way to the shared bathroom. A bit small, not that he can complain. That's more than what he ever had for himself, not that he minds somehow. At home, running for the bathroom and outsmarting his siblings was a fun game, that's all. Slytherin is not the house of luxury, although it's close to it. Apparently, it's Hufflepuff which is the sole of the four to have individual bedrooms. In a way, that makes sense, considering that's the place with the reputation of accepting anybody, no matter how weird they are.

Slipping on the floor, Ron swears, for himself. His mother can't hear him here, and he takes a moment to admire the snakes engraved into the bathroom mirror, surrounding it. They're moving slightly, letting out soft hisses which send shivers down his spine. That's way prettier than his morning face, to be fair. He looks like shit, probably from the excitement of the evening prior. After washing his face and putting his uniform on, he glances inside the room, whispering the word to light some of the candles on the wall. He avoids doing this with the main light as he isn't certain of how fast Leonis would wake up and slaughter him. The bloke seems alright, for the most part.

Merlin, what an understatement, he welcomed him into Slytherin before anybody else!

Ron is grateful. To think he is standing there, with the green tie he struggled to put on properly—that sure doesn't go well with his hair. He discovers that he doesn't care that much. Not when he saw merpeople dancing in the water the night before, signing with some of the older students. He wants to learn to do that, to run his fingers against the beautiful chess board in the common room too, and simply to be a part of this.

"Mate you should get up and you're gonna miss breakfast—" his mother would be furious if he went to class on an empty stomach which is why he packs his supplies and timetable before heading downstairs. Not without getting a low groan from the other bed.

If Leonis isn't down before class, he'll check on him.

  
  


Surprisingly, Ron is among the first people in the Great Hall. Oh, is he that early? That wasn't meant to happen. At least his brothers aren't there, thus he simply focuses on getting a well-balanced meal, timeline on his knees as he checks his classes of the day. Potions class seems challenging somehow. The professor is the head of his house after all—doesn't get along with the twins for what he remembers. 

"Morning!"

"Oh hey Gabriel. Slept well?"

"Before or after Blaise started to teach me wizard chess? The pieces killing each other in front of me at midnight sure was something..."

"Oh yeah I forgot they don't do that in your version. Want some pancakes? They're to die for."

A polite cough on his left causes him to look at the Bloody Baron floating with his feet inside the table.

"Erm, metaphorically speaking of course, sir."

Once he has left, Ron finds himself less interested in pancakes for some reason. By his side, Gabriel eats slowly, glancing at the timetable.

"Flying sounds intense."

"Nah, it's only to teach first years to manipulate a broom, and for most of our house to show off, I guess. Good thing first years can't join the Quidditch team or else Malfoy would be shrieking about buying his place on the team already."

"They all have brooms at home, don't they?" Gabriel remarks, starting to be aware of the ravine between him and some of his classmates. That was to be expected, as he wasn't exposed to magic a lot, outside of a yearly trip to Diagon Alley which makes his mother feel faint every time, "what's up with you and Malfoy by the way?"

"Old family feud, our parents have opposite views on everything. I think he's a prick who prefers his reflection over other people! That's all." 

"You sound oddly passionate about him," Gabriel sounds mildly amused although it's obvious from the day before that he isn't willing to join Malfoy's fanclub either. Probably due to the way he insulted Hermione and Ron.

"I wouldn't use that word."

"Infuated then?"

"Shut up!"

They have a good laugh out of the whole thing, at least. 

  
▲ ▲ ▲

The rivalry between Slytherin and Gryffindor is so deep inside the school that the roots have taken over everything, leaving no room for anything different to grow without getting suffocated. Joint classes are, obviously, not meant to push students into a different way, if anything you'd think it's the opposite with how insults are allowed to go from one side to another. Soon, they'll be older, with hexes replacing meaningless words. 

For now though, it's insufferable to be stuck there, having to listen to children vomiting nonsense learned from their parents without any grasp on what they mean. Blaise would rather be in his room, studying something interesting, instead of having the wind of September blowing his robes into his face. 

Sadly though, one doesn't always obtain what he desires. Hence how he has to go through the whole show of Draco Malfoy making a fool out of himself by stealing candy from a baby, or rather a useless artifact from a poor fellow first year who has been escorted to the infirmary. 

Blaise sighs, legs crossed on his broom as he floats in mid-air, against what their professor ordered while she's away. He's not flying per se, therefore it's acceptable. 

Considering that Granger didn't even manage to get her broom to leave the ground and that Weasley got hit in the face by his—he is doing quite well, yes. 

His annoyance at Malfoy only increases as he riles up their enemies. There is a way to do so, one more subtle and less consequences prone than whatever he is doing. One day, a muggleborn might punch him in the face and it'll be such a shame that Nott was holding his brand new camera at that exact instant. 

Give the damn thing back so we can go to lunch, he scolds the other internally. After all, doing so externally would go against the rule of sticking together. 

Malfoy junior is having a fantastic time throwing the fragile object as high as possible before catching it—definitely planning on playing fetch with the Gryffindors, he awaits for the dramatic conclusion. After all, what else is there to do. Who would save him from terrible boredom. 

"Let me see." 

Oh, his pesky brother. 

Leonis, after catching the Remembrall, right before Malfoy could break it via an excellent throw for a so-called future seeker, pretends to inspect it with care. 

What follows is Malfoy not being able to do more than telling him to give it back, cheeks burning with anger. The line between playful rivalry and straight up house trahison is so difficult to see sometimes. 

Ah, finally something interesting to watch. 

Spinning around his victim, Leonis doesn't appear to listen to the comment. Or rather order. His gaze remains focused on the transparent ball, watching the meager sun going through it as he lifts it up. 

"No one from the Noble and Most Ancient House of Malfoy would steal from an injured classmate, no matter enemy or ally. That would be a sign of weakness, nothing cunning or brilliant about that."

Blaise has always been fond of his younger, by a couple of months, brother. If anything, his grand arrival on their porch one day, alongside the morning owl delivering mail, an eight years old child claiming to be the son of Francis Grey, his mother's fourth husband, a French gentleman of a lineage as pure as theirs. Sadly departed for a better world after an accidental fall into treacherous stairs, without any witness, in the middle of a party. And, oddly, months later, his bastard child seeks shelter after the death of his mother in equally troubling circumstances. How Zabini of him. 

His mother, in all her grand schemes and numerous secondary residences, had not taken that particular possibility into account which led to awkwardness for a couple of weeks until she opted to simply adopt the child as hers. After all, why not? 

The orphan with distant eyes soon became Blaise's companion, walking with him around the gardens—fascinated by the growing collection of deadly plants—listening and sometimes offering sharp remarks about one topic or another. His frail health caused him to be a bit coddled by their mother until Hogwarts, not that Blaise minds. More freedom for him. Enough to be allowed to stroll through the quaint Narbonne' streets during Summer days, and the countryside in England over colder months.

Ah, how he misses the warmth of France during July and August when the air is wet and cold against his bones. 

"I did not steal, he dropped it."

"Ane what, without your divine intervention someone would have stepped on it, breaking the frail glass. Is that your answer, Malfoy?" 

Seething, Draco won't have the right thing to say, Blaise can tell. While he is lucky to have grown far from that circle for the most part, it's still a shame that the blond is so insufferable. That's fixable, of course, not that he cares about doing so. Blaise is too young, and focused on his own ego, for that. 

"I cannot hand it back to these—children. Who knows what could happen?" 

"Ah, they could return it to Heir Longbottom, I suppose. You would, right?" 

His gaze, far from kind, lands on the Gryffindors who have done nothing to protect Neville from falling off his broom earlier. Sure, it's an accident, yet they do not appear to be worried about his state. In the blink of an eye, Leonis has trampled over the invisible line between the houses, handing the Remembrall to a girl who hasn't spoken yet. 

"Deliver it back directly, if you may."

"Zabini!" 

Nobody in their year, outside of Malfoy of course, picked him as leader. Which is something the boy is only discovering now. Sure, having a godfather as head of house is an excellent trump card, yet that's all he has. Blaise doesn't consider Draco's circle as a menace, outside of Parkinson, and even Pansy isn't that great, they are feeble people meant to be followers. 

"Let's race then," Draco taunts more than he asks. 

Oh, a challenge. Blaise raises an eyebrow at his brother, trying to gauge his reaction. Obviously, Leonis can ride a broom. Oddly well for someone of their age without a paid instructor. Nonetheless , it's rare for him to actually fly. Mix of his weak constitution and a lack of interest. He's gloomy, his brother, on most days. Capable of impressive anger, of spitting rules as if his tongue was covered in the deepest ink. Right now though, he is yawning, oversized cardigan underneath his robes and leaning too much on one side. 

"I don't fancy joining Longbottom right now, perhaps another day." 

Turning down a challenge is an insult. Although doing so to follow school rules is less of an offense. Either way, Leonis picked right, for once, as their teacher is already back, shouting at them to go back to training. 

What Blaise notices is that she hasn't said anything on how he hasn't been back on the ground for the past ten minutes. Good for him. 

  
▲ ▲ ▲

Potions, once again with Gryffindors. It's admirable how their remaining classes, such as Charms or History of magic, are less dreadful than the ones they share with the lions. A shame that they have so many joint classes. It's as if teachers wished to see the school burn to the ground. Might be the case with Severus Snape considering how he glares down at them. His first remark is aimed at Nott, for not tying his long hair properly, and if he wishes for a potion to destroy it he could at least have the decency to do it outside of class. 

This wrong start leads the Gryffindors to believe that they are safe, which couldn't be the farthest from the truth. 

In fact, nobody is safe in this classroom. Especially not the ingredients that most students are going to destroy by cutting them without elegance or any regard for the recipe. That's a way to learn, isn't it? Most of them should have mastered reading at such age, not that Snape has many hopes left about that. 

Instead, his gaze lingers on each student, watching them as they form pairs outside of a green boy who ends up alone due to Longbottom still being at the infirmary. In a way, that must be better for him to rest for a while. Not troubled by the fact he is alone, and his station being at the front, the Slytherin merely looks at the parchment next to him. He has as much interest for the potion as he would for a dead fish, probably. 

A bit infuriated, and bothered by something in his appearance—it doesn't fit a snake, to be so nonchalant—Snape decides to pick him as an example for the first class, as he always does with a random student. He had planned to get Potter. Except there is nobody with that name and the Dursley kid is quietly taking notes with a quill to make sure he read the instructions properly. Which is a lot more than he expected from that man's child. 

"Zabini, what would I get if I added powdered root of asphodel to an infusion of wormwood?" 

Leonis Zabini does bother lifting his gaze to be sure that Snape is addressing him and not his brother. 

"Draught of the Living Death, that's a sleeping potion, known to be potent."

This one can read, admirable. Hands crossed in front of his chest, Snape doesn't bother congratulating him for something he's meant to know in the first place. 

"Where would you look if I told you to find me a Bezoar? And in which cases would you use one? " 

The child presses his chin against his palm leaning on his station, his cardigan isn't the right size and it covers half of his hand. Snape groans internally, that's a hazard as much as Nott's hair. 

"Stomach of a goat, it's efficient against poisons."

"What's the difference between Monkshood and Wolfsbane?" 

He sees a flicker of amusement in the boy's eyes, this time around. Not something pleasant, more of a dark interest at being pushed so far. 

"None. They're the same plant, sir."

"What Mr.Zabini has shown is the basic knowledge I expect each of you to have in this class. If you couldn't answer these questions, it's time to re-evaluate your standards."

No point to Slytherin due to poor posture though. Not that he says that, as it seems obvious. Either way this little show has left more than half of the class a bit on edge which is what he wished to achieve. He makes a mental note to tell Granger not to raise her hand while he is interrogating another student, as it simply looks like a cry for attention. Outside of class though. After all, she's one of his students. 

The brewing part of potion making is way beyond most of these young creatures, who fall at the simplest tasks. There is one explosion within ten minutes due to a Gryffindor finding smart to put all his ingredients at once to gain time, and a burned Slytherin who thought that touching a burning cauldron to assess its temperature made sense. He sends both of them to the infirmary with the stern order to avoid murdering each other on the way. The nurse doesn't deserve such mess, after all. 

At the front, Zabini is working at his own pace on his potion. He is a bit behind time-wise although his roots are perfectly minced and he is actually paying attention to the instructions. Before Snape can award him a point or two for common sense, he watches Granger and Weasley's potion as it changes into a worrisome pink. He has no chance to intervene as Zabini has already walked to their station. 

"Ronald didn't cut properly." 

"You had to stir counterclockwise, it's your fault," he hisses back as Zabini pushes both of them aside to stare at the potion. 

"Silence. Instead of blaming each other relentlessly start fixing your messes. Granger, that ingredient had to be crushed, you read too fast and skipped a line. However, you did stir properly."

He leaves them open-mouthed and embarrassed, stepping back to focus on his work which has also taken an odd shade. Might be why Malfoy is snickering behind him. Oh Snape will have to lecture all of his snakes apparently. Not in public, as they would be an unnecessary humiliation. 

(A shame he doesn't follow the same thoughtful advice with the remaining houses.)

The atmosphere around Zabini has turned heavy, as he takes out a book from his bag, opening it on his station without any care to wash it before. For a moment, Snape wonders what he aims to do, until he peeks over his shoulder, realizing the first year is looking for a way to balance an overabundance of whatever Malfoy dropped in his cauldron. 

_Interesting_. 

That's not the textbook he assigned to this grade, and the contents wouldn't be approved by the school in the first place, which doesn't mean he isn't familiar with them—he steps back just in time to stop the other Zabini and Dursley from making a mistake and ruining their potion. 

  
  


At the end of class, everyone remains alive, albeit mediocre. Which is more or less what he expected. Since it's the last class of the day, he gestures at Zabini to remain behind for a brief moment. His potion was absolutely perfect, even better than Malfoy and his hadn't been tempered with. That's a rare proof of intelligence, or rather knowledge and he intends on finding more about it. 

"Zabini, what's the name of the book you used?" 

"Potions and Poisons across the ages, a guide to excellency."

Good. He did not lie. Or else Snape would have confiscated the book for the boy's own good. To advance too fast in Potions, or in any subject taught at Hogwarts, can cause disasters greater than a burned down cauldron. 

"How did it come in your possession?" 

"Zabini's Library, sir."

He doesn't seem to be—brilliant, yes, he evaluated the mistake his friends made and corrected it faster than most children his age—as interested by the subject as Snape hoped. Ah, at such age... The dark eyes following him are filled with clouds he doesn't understand, nor he pries into his mind. That's only for emergencies and there is often a _baggage_ which comes with being a Pureblood. 

"Refrain from lending it to your classmates, I'm sure you understand they are below your level and I'd rather not have them brew something unstable."

"I don't intend to, Blaise does not even like Potions anyway." Not a surprise, the older Zabini seems more like a Charms kind of student, from what he has seen. "The others are his friends more than mine. I tag along, that's all." 

"That's not quite the impression I got." 

There is a silence as the boy rubs his arm, above his clothes. He wouldn't say that Leonis is annoyed, although he isn't eager to be associated with others, which comes as a surprise. He scratches at the fabric of his cardigan for a while before replying. 

"What can I say, sir, impressions can be deceiving. Am I free to go?" 

"You are. I'll make an announcement during the week in the common room regarding the group mentality I wish for you all to have. At least in public." 

"Good luck making Malfoy listen," the kid says, leaving the classroom without bothering with adding anything else. 

_Interesting indeed_. 

  
  



	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hello my name is Kane and I have accidentally started my Nanowrimo with this fic, please send help. Thank you very much for taking the time to leave kudos by the way.

As a child, Gabriel is told to expect for that day to happen, hands grabbing his arms, stern gaze refusing to release him as his mother whispers scornful words into his face. _Brace for the worst_ , she warns, eyelids covered in faint purple—only a bit of color, never pressing too hard on the brush, Gabriel watches her from time to time—nails chipped from worrying too much.

Goblins cannot fix everything. They can pry apart his head, remove the offense, repair broken wards to make them functional and not life-threatening, however the damage which has already been done isn't their problem. That's why Gabriel grows with Dudley throwing tantrums, and various objects in his direction, years of favoritism as negative for the brain as neglect. He turns older, watching the cakes become homemade rather than whatever was left at the supermarket, frosting half off from the ride home, he counts presents, surprised to have any, while Dudley hoards complaints from teachers and awful days which are hard to fix.

Gabriel has a brother he doesn't always get along with. It takes them years to build something out of the tragedy, to walk to school side by side. He learns that the hand raised doesn't mean a slap but his hair getting ruffled. No more getting chased, terror and resentment building in the pit of his stomach. Somehow, neither of them heals completely from their younger years. Always a hint of anger in his brother, the urge to run in his own legs.

He stays still, even when Petunia offers secrets, as she takes out family albums, handing out pictures which leave her bitter and unsure. His aunt turned mother asks about his name, when he's seven.

"You're a Dursley. Not a Potter, you might have been—still are, to them. They'll use it against you."

Are Petunia and Vernon right or wrong? Is it that simple? Can you say that their actions are the cause of everything? Impossible to say at seven, even at eleven, he isn't sure. Adults are selfish, family or not. He wants to belong, to have a name to call his own. The Potters have long been buried in a cemetery he only visited once, dried flowers and simple engravings which left Vernon scoffing as he bent down to remove dirt and fallen leaves. 

That did not ease the questions, the longing. Instead, it made the whole ordeal worse. Photographs and stories feel real, alive. Tombs next to each other are only sadness and no hope at all. That's why he steps a bit too far towards one side, neglecting the other. 

"I'm a Dursley," he repeats, and his mother is smiling. In the way she does with Dudley, praise glimmering in her eyes. He wants that, wants love and comfort. That won't make the hurt disappear completely. It's still something though. He'd rather be happy, if he can. 

"Lily and I talked about names for our children, before drifting apart, would you like to hear some of them?" 

"Yes, mom."

"Good."

They sit together in the living room on that ugly couch that Petunia loves so much, rays of sunlight dancing against the woolen rug he lays on some afternoons, doing homework with Dudley. That's not proper, she scolds them, and they laugh, climbing back on the couch only to go back off it once she has stopped watching them. 

She shouldn't ask for him to change his name. 

She does so anyway, and Gabriel, still Harry, goes with it. He doesn't wish to be a symbol or a weapon, simply a Dursley. 

  
  


Years later, standing in the headmaster's office, he is aware of the monologue unfolding in front of him, of what the man is trying to do. 

"My boy, sit down please. I have—I'm surprised I wasn't informed of your name change," he is kind, or rather he behaves as if he were. Gabriel isn't certain of which answer is right, refusing the candy offered to him. He already brushed his teeth earlier. 

In the uncomfortable armchair, he leans back, awaiting for whatever will be aimed at him this time around. He's like an egg, his mother often said, a soft-boiled one, with a hard shell, yet tender inside. The kind of person who carries hurt on his shoulders without loathing others. Some days, he thinks he's as hard-boiled as the rest of his family, tough and hard to break, but right now, in front of the stranger leaning forward, he just wants to be home again. 

He offers no reply. The man isn't awaiting one, not yet. Thus Gabriel doesn't tell him about McGonagall and her visit, on his birthday. How she talked with Vernon about the weather and the brand of tea one of his clients had offered him from his travels. That was a strange visit, in retrospect. To feel magic so welcoming instead of a lurking danger. 

"Your parents' legacy, I'm sure you understand? The sacrifice they made for you—Oh. My boy, do you know even about it? The story of James and Lily Potter."

Ah, he misplaced a bit of the conversation.

"It's crucial that they aren't forgotten. I'm saddened to see that you pushed this honor aside in favor of your muggle relatives. You must be close?" 

Does he expect him to refute his words? To claim that his mother and father are terrible people who forced the name upon him? Maybe it's what happened, maybe it's not. Lips forming a thin line, Gabriel lets the armchair swallow his body a bit more. 

"They adopted me as their son, so yes," he isn't certain of the twinkling in the man's eyes as he says those words, "and I know of my biological parents."

"They are war heroes, people look up to them, even now that they have departed this world. They—" 

"Died to protect me from Voldemort," names have power, Slytherin taught him that much. He wouldn't say Voldemort among his classmates though "did you call me here so I could go through terrible memories again?" 

"I assure you it's not my intention. I was simply worried you weren't aware of that part of your heritage. Growing among muggles can be difficult for a wizard."

"My parents made sure to take me to Diagon Alley every year, since I turned seven, you have no reason to worry about me." 

Nor to pry into personal matters, he snarls internally. If he's reading the room right, there is a hint of disappointment in the air. The headmaster probably thought he could regal him with tales about his biological parents to win his affection. Or at least to get information about his living conditions.

"I admit I expected you to follow their footsteps, although there is nothing wrong with Slytherin."

Liar. 

Only a couple of weeks in, and he has noticed how his house is excluded, considered as the intruder. Completely absurd! The Ravenclaws are the most annoying people he had the displeasure to meet, always bragging about being so studious and smart. Next to them, his own house is made out of perfect angels—ah, he's stepping into stereotypes too. Fine, only a handful of Ravenclaws are a bother. It's enough to ruin some of his classes. 

"The hat told me I could pick between the two," he confesses, because what's the harm in that? "In the end my friends are also Slytherin so I think I decided well."

"We always have a choice, my boy. And you made yours. Oh, I wouldn't want you to miss your next class, you can go. You're always welcome for a chat if you feel the need to." 

"Thank you, sir."

On his way down the stairs, Gabriel has to repress a shiver. He loathes being called 'boy'. And there is no way he's walking into that office on his own will ever again. 

  
▲ ▲ ▲

The main problem with Potions isn't the inability of Longbottom to pay attention to what he is doing. Oh no, Leonis could deal with an incompetent partner. In fact, if he wanted to, he could simply grab someone else. What would be the point? The Gyffindor would cause another cauldron to melt, dissolving into tears and apologies. 

By Merlin, who taught him to be so fearful of everything—family without a doubt, that's a foolish question. 

As said earlier, Leonis has no trouble with the situation in itself. What bothers him is the way Snape needs a reality check on the way he is treating the students who do not belong to his house. Yes, that's true, the Slytherins are often dismissed and ignored by their teachers in favor of their classmates. They do not even do it on purpose, it's simply the good old prejudices jumping out. Not a reason to repeat the pattern in reverse with a hint of petty revenge. 

"Granger, switch places with Malfoy," Snape tells them before they have even sat down in front of their station. 

He thinks that Dursley is mocking Weasley for being stuck with the prick, considering the way he leans forward to whisper something into his ear. Which is met with a weak 'I'm not infuated with him!'. 

On the bright side, Granger won't temper with his potion like Malfoy did a couple of times since the start of the year. He inhales sharply at Neville's shaky hands, the way he is preparing himself for failure by his side, trying to hide it with a pitiful smile. 

"Longbottom, it'll be alright if we follow the instructions."

Leonis glares at Snape while speaking. He wouldn't care about Longbottom if they weren't seated together, that's the sad reality of the situation. Still, they are together now, for the worst apparently. 

Cutting, crushing, preparing ingredients one after another, he does his best to ignore the not-so-subtle way Malfoy and Weasley are ready to slaughter each other through gritted teeth. Slytherin harmony, don't they remember Snape' speech? Apparently no one does. 

If they did, there wouldn't be so many whispers washing over the dungeons akin to tidal waves crashing against the shore one after another.

At least, this week, their potion will be excellent. Snape doesn't seem to tolerate anything else from him, outside of perfection. Of course, Leonis is aware it's a compliment. He doesn't have to enjoy it though. 

"Longbottom," and if Snape could avoid coming up behind them while they are working, then Longbottom wouldn't panic and suddenly drop all the herbs he was holding into the cauldron, "pay attention. Since you enjoy wasting ingredients so much, and that's for every single one of you, you are not allowed to take more of what you were assigned in the beginning. And five points from Gryffindor." 

"Great."

"Zabini, I'm sorr—" 

"Did I ask?" 

A flock of Gryffindors are ruffling their feathers in the back, ready to jump at his throat for what he said. Isn't it curious, how they are so keen on judging him when none of them is fucking helping either? 

Robes disregarded, as they are not optimal for potion making anyway, Leonis scratches at his arm, underneath his cardigan, tracing the absent pattern from memory with his nails. At least since the fabric is black, blood won't be visible if he loses his patience. And he's quite close to what Blaise calls his terrible temper. 

"Longbottom, what did professor Snape say?" 

"We aren't allowed to get more ingredients—how are we going to finish the potion, is it ruined? I—" 

"It's not what I heard."

His favorite book once again slammed on the table, with more strength than compulsory, causing Granger to wince behind him, Leonis takes a moment to glare at Snape just because. 

"He mentioned not taking more of what we grabbed at the beginning of class, nothing about the remaining ingredients."

"Can we swap some of them?" 

Considering they put twice as much herbs as compulsory, either they find a way to balance the whole mixture with what they have or they go for a completely different potion. Both choices have their disadvantages. By opting for something else, Snape might simply award them a terrible grade for not having followed the recipe. But if they switch ingredients, it's impossible to obtain the perfect result the bastard wants. 

Calculating, and leaning on the station with his elbow, Leonis ignores his partner for a moment. He has to go through various chapters, sometimes with Longbottom hovering above his shoulder curiously, to gather information and be sure of what would work better. 

"That's risky. However, it's more convenient than being screwed." 

"I'm sorry—" 

"Shut up, that won't solve anything, and it's not what we need now. You'll have to work on your composure. He doesn't have as much power as you think," straightening himself, a rare feat for the youngest Zabini, who enjoys to pass as harmless instead of a good pureblood child—might remind people of someone else if he does—he leaves the station to gather what could be useful. 

Snape is staring. Ensuring he doesn't go against the brand new rule which makes sense while managing to piss him off at the same time. It's true, they do waste ingredients. They are first years though, what else can be expected from them?

Returning, he drops everything in front of Neville, who probably expects him to save the day while he watches from a corner. As if. 

"I will tell you how to proceed, simply do as I say."

"What if I mess up?" 

"What if you do not."

Longbottom is a piece of work, honestly. Leonis doesn't truly offer him a choice, nor he purposely gives out false information to check if the boy is following his instructions. They are not at that stage, yet. 

As they work together, he moves around the table so Snape isn't in view while he sits at his desk. Teachers are paid to keep an eye on them, not to murder them. Longbottom ought to understand that by now. He corrects his hands so the knife doesn't go through his hand once or twice, without doing much more. 

"I'm doing well?" 

"Refrain from sounding so surprised, I intend on it to become a habit."

The sooner they work in sync, the faster their grades will reflect on that. As long as the other does the homework properly. Frankly, Leonis is more at ease with Potions and Astronomy than the rest. Charms aren't hard, he simply has little interest in practicing again and again what comes naturally to him. As for the remaining classes... Depends on his mood. Defence against the Dark Arts is terrible though. He loathes the way the man stares at Gabriel and him as if he was looking for something invisible to them. The class in itself is passable, with little knowledge transmitted to students. It should be practical, not only theory of creatures they have slim chances of encountering! 

"I think—I did it?" 

Oh. Longbottom. Blinking, Leonis takes a look at the potion perfectly stirred by his classmate. That's a first. And it only took them two months. Admirable. Filling two vials, just in case of someone dropping one, he nudges the taller boy towards their teacher. 

"Can't you deliver it instead?" 

"Absolutely not," a rude smile on his lips, feeling his sleeve turning a bit damp from earlier, he gestures towards the desk. 

With the strength of a true lion—or rather a clumsy cub, Neville steps forward, handing out their masterpiece to Snape. There is always a possibility that the man will ask for detailed steps Longbottom won't be able to produce himself, which is why he pays attention while cleaning. 

After an eternity, during which he is surprised that Longbottom isn't curled up on the floor, awaiting for death, Snape twirls the vial between his fingers, taking into account consistency and shade of the mixture. 

"Acceptable." 

You would think that Snape has offered Longbottom a trophy with his name engraved on it, judging by his reaction. After blurting out a thank you, he almost trips on his own feet returning to their cauldron. 

"Did you hear that? Acceptable! It's my best grade since the beginning of the year." 

He almost grabs his arm, Leonis stepping back quickly to avoid the gesture. His smile, still a hint of mischief and not-quite-nice, hasn't vanished when he lifts his head to look at the slightly taller boy. 

"That's below average."

"But we passed?" 

"Aim a tad higher next time, will you?" 

Colors fade from Longbottom's face when he realizes that Leonis intends on pushing him further from now on. Exactly like... Snape, in fact. Either the best or nothing. He could have gotten another partner and managed a passable grade without that much work, but no, he had to end up paired with an overachiever.

That smile truly isn't a good sign. 

"What did I sign up for..." 

"A long year, trust me."

At least, Zabini bothered to clean their station completely while he presented the potion. Thus they are free to leave. 

  
▲ ▲ ▲

Longbottom is obviously dejected at the prospect of being under pressure again like that. What if they do not find an alternative or he messes up once more? Ah, someone who has their own textbook is obviously interested in the subject, he shouldn't have fallen off his broom during their first week and missed the initial class. 

"Am I that terrifying?" 

"Yes, I mean no! Not at all!" 

When Zabini starts laughing, the sound sharp and unrepentant, he realizes that's the first time he has seen him so amused. Longbottom is aware Slytherins are merely tough to get along with. They do not hang out with people they look down upon, nor they are keen on meaningless chatter. At least, it's what his grandmother told him. She's, after all, more knowledgeable than him, who couldn't make any friend in the past eleven years. 

"You are strict, in a mean way, and a bit rude," that's a way to put it. If they weren't so young, he'd say that Zabini intends on being rivals with Snape, which is way above their grasp and thus is nonsensical. 

"Thank you. You're spineless, and terrible with people."

On an impulse, because after all nobody has bothered to be that honest with him—they offer him pitiful looks when he loses his notes or is late to class. Poor Neville, they offer, so naive, without providing anything more than that—he offers his hand to Zabini. 

"Not that spineless, then. Slytherins are not quite on board with friendship."

"Partnership then? In Potions and perhaps—to study if you wish to."

Neville is one hundred per cent overstepping boundaries. His hand is still hanging in the air, starting to get moist from stress. If he gets rejected, that won't be worse than usual, he tells himself. That sounds pathetic. 

"And in return?" 

Oversized sleeve against his mouth to hide his smirk, Zabini is awaiting for an answer and—he did not plan that far ahead. 

"Herbology! I'm truly excellent. I grow plants myself at home, and tend to the family garden—it's a hobby, unacceptable for a career my grandmother would say, however I'm great. At that. At one thing. It's all I can offer and—" 

"Deal, Longbottom."

The hand squeezing his is incredibly cold, to the point he worries for a moment that Zabini is going to faint or something. Due to his fragile health, for what he has seen, and heard, the other boy sometimes has to leave class to rest at the infirmary. It would be rude to ask for details though. 

"You can let go now." 

"Sorry! I mean, my bad! Same thing really. Well, see you then... Later?" 

"Bye bye. Don't forget, we're getting that Outstanding in Potions."

Yes, sure. 

Growing a spine. He can do that. One day. Not today because he has homework and Charms and it would be hard to do everything at once, you know—perhaps tomorrow. Yes that sounds appropriate. 

Onward with that project then! 

Oh, he is going into the wrong direction—goddamm stairs. 

  
▲ ▲ ▲

Once in the bathroom, away from prying eyes—as the dungeons possess, outside of their common room, the coldest toilet seats you can find in the castle and there are tales of students getting stuck—Leonis tugs on his cardigan, removing it to stare at the red marks into his skin. An annoyance he cleans with care and cold water, not bothering with a healing spell. He isn't talented at those, and even if he were, he would cause similar marks soon enough. 

Lingering memories have almost traced the skull right, until his nails ripped away too much skin—as for the snake, he can feel it. It's here, rummaging underneath his veins whereas nobody can see it. That's madness, all of this—being there, seeing Snape and—Stupid things. He washes his sleeve before drying it with a spell. Getting an infection would be unpleasant. 

He sits on the floor, freezing water not having done much for the faint bleeding. He ought to cut his nails until his fingers are red, perhaps that'd teach his mind to behave. How childish. 

The problem runs deeper and Leonis is aware of it. He hugs his cardigan against his chest, wondering why he cannot simply obliviate himself of what doesn't belong. That would help, a bit. Or worsen everything. Tears pool in his eyes, and he angrily wipe them away with his unblemished arm. 

He's going to—go back into his room? Unlike the Gryffindor he doesn't have another class. Although he isn't in the mood to hang with anybody, not even his brother (which one, his mind whispers and he presses both hands against his ears, trying to suffocate the thought. Do not mention him ever again). 

The kitchens. That sounds—smarter. He pushes himself onto his feet, buttoning his cardigan with shaky fingers until he gets it right, refusing to aim for lesser than perfection. Outside of the fact he looks like shit after crying, he's fine. Nothing which can't be fixed by hot cocoa with a hint of honey to make it sweeter. Odd mix, but he likes it. 

The path is imprinted into his mind, and he doesn't struggle to find his way inside the kitchens. Accustomed to visitors, the house-elves don't hush him outside. Instead, he is offered a stool and a fresh slice of lemon pie because he's apparently as pale as the Baron. Not exactly a compliment although he can deal. 

The Zabinis do have house-elves too, managing their different properties in absence of his mother, and he appreciates them. Cutting a slice of pie with his fork, and ignoring the tingling in his arm as he does so, being left-handed, Leonis observes his surroundings. 

Absolutely gigantic. The kitchens mirror the Great Hall above after all. He shouldn't be eating dessert before dinner, not that he cares. There is a lot to do, inside the school, and he has no idea where to start. He has to admit that he sometimes feels uneasy in the common room, if only due to the lake he can see from it. Being surrounded by water hasn't, historically, been his forte. 

Shivering a bit, he shoves a bigger bite into his mouth, barely bothering to chew. Another problem for another day, or something. Tomorrow, it's Halloween. Many children will celebrate, while others mourn, no matter on which side their families stood. That's kind of easy to gloss over, when all they get to celebrate are pumpkin recipes and feisty decorations. 

For someone who isn't there to make friends, he seems to surround himself with more and more faces by the way. Longbottom is a different case, he tries to convince himself, he shows the familiar signs—

The pressure of pureblood families who take and tear personalities apart to leave nothing behind. Except Neville failed step one and now he isn't seen as important at all. Urg, that's not his problem. Definitely not. 

He's going to train him in Potions anyway. 


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again for your kudos! You get another chapter today, feat the sole oc of that story, because I needed someone to fit that job, and Pansy joining the gang in the weirdest way possible!
> 
> Tw for bullying. Like heavy bullying. Slytherin has some problems and the kids are working on them.

Professor Snape took her aside days earlier, and for a moment all Hermione could think of were similar meetings at her old school, teachers dragging her in a corner one year after another. Their words imprinted into her skin—always a repetition she couldn't get away from—the cruelty that adults have when they believe they are fixing things. You have to work harder to make friends. If you behaved like them, they would not be so mean. Why aren't you trying? Don't you want to have friends?

The agony of these sessions, one on one meant to help her to be a part of something which bored her to death, might never leave her. Some nights, lying awake in her bed, she watches them akin to old movies. She remembers her transparent raincoat with transparent liquid and floating ducks in the pockets, she could have played with them for hours, only for a girl to try slashing the pockets off with blunt scissors because only babies wear those. Or when she fell on the playground and nobody helped. She can go on for hours, interchangeable memories she doesn't wish to carry.

Thus, when Snape ambushed her, Hermione thought she knew what was coming, mentally berating herself for not considering that possibility. He must have noticed how she made herself smaller, hands defensively held together in front of her chest.

Unlike what she expected though, there was no mockery nor judgment. Oh, he wasn't kind, as expected from such a man, reminding her of the role Slytherin plays in the school. How she has to stand alongside her classmates and not against them. 

Then, he offered the name of a fourth year muggleborn student and went on his way. No vicious taunt, no threat of calling her parents to report her behavior. And she remembered how to breathe.

  
  


A hand against her chest, she is working on that slight problem once more. In and out. Slowly. All she has to do is to find who she is looking for, extract him from his friends, if he is surrounded, and lay down the interrogations and trials she may face as a muggleborn in Slytherin. Easy, right? In fact, not at all. After pacing through the common room for ten minutes, Hermione is done with her nerves.

"Granger, lost something?"

"Parkinson—" 

Pansy is all her glory, hair perfectly cut in a bob, uniform without a wrinkle, sitting with her back straight on the couch. Most of the older students chase them later during the evening, but at that hour they are free to believe they reign over the common room.

"Yes, thank you for remembering my name. Since we share a room."

"Do you know where I can find Hyun-Soo Dan? Professor Snape—"

"Told you to befriend another muggleborn, as expected. Perhaps you'll learn from him."

"You did not answer my question."

Why is everything in Slytherin akin to playing tug of war against rich kids with no regard for what she wants? Once again, breathing, gently. She is not smiling, as she won't move her muscles for something so insignificant. 

"Considering that telling you means you are going to leave the room, I suppose I should indulge you. He's probably in the courtyard."

With this freezing weather? Oh, she must mean the cloister. She isn't certain she should actually thank Pansy or not. Obviously it's the polite thing to do... Still, the other girl isn't friendly towards her, although they share a room. Sure, Parkinson warned her from day one that it would be this way. Ah, Hermione would have liked for them to be closer…

"I'll be back before nighttime, I hope. Thank you."

She isn't mean enough not to say it.

The only reply she gets is a vague 'hm'. In retrospect, it's only on her way to the courtyard that Hermione takes into account that Parkinson is always on her own, as long as Malfoy isn't around. The remaining Slytherin girls seem close, at least Hermione hears them snickering in her direction from time to time, which sounds tame in comparison to what she went through at her muggle school. Parkinson does appear difficult to get along with. She rarely has anything positive to say about her classmates, in spite of being aware of—what people are doing? And who they are. As if she had memorized the whole complexity of their house within weeks.

Blood purity is actually more difficult that it seems, with the different houses following a feudal system among themselves. Which would be fascinating, as history often is, without the mentions of muggleborns having to be separated from their families for their own good, and raised among wizards. She finds it disgusting. 

It's somewhat irritated that she strolls inside the covered part of the courtyard. It's humid, and awfully cold as the wind roars outside the stone cloister, leaving her uneasy. However, she's quick to get why the teenager has opted to hide in the deserted place. 

What she hears first isn't much, only fingers drumming against chords to test them. Then comes the melody, confidence spiraling against the wind and actually leaving her a bit more optimistic about the encounter. He plays well, for the little she knows about music. 

Nevertheless, baby-sitting younger students falls onto prefects usually and she cannot imagine a fifteen years old wishing to hang with a kid—her older cousins always shove her away when she tries to talk about her interests. She doesn't want to be a bother, merely to learn. 

That's her goal, at any given time. 

To understand, to turn into a better version of herself. 

Hermione takes a deep breath, walking forward. Sitting there, actually leaning against the stained glass, feet on the stone bench, is her target. 

"Excuse me?" 

There is a pause, gloved fingers—cut above knuckles to allow fingers to feel the chords properly—ceasing to move as he lifts his head. Hyun-Soo has the aura of a Slytherin. Which is an odd thing to say considering his leather jacket and a bit of eyeliner around his eyes. He fits the part by the way he takes his time to put the guitar aside, scrutinizing her with sharp eyes. And then, as if he was remembering something important, he removes his feet from the bench so she can sit down. 

Which is a bit offending as his shoes were on it, and Hermione isn't certain that brushing the stone with her hand or a handkerchief would be seen as an act of rebellion against the older student. Telling herself that clothes can be cleaned, she lowers herself by his side, guitar left against a pillar on the teenager' side. 

"Professor Snape—" 

"Sent you."

Why is everyone interrupting her today? 

"Granger, Hermione. Well met."

"Studying customs, aren't you? Call me Hyun-Soo, if I can call you Hermione."

It's rare for people to memorize her name after hearing it only once, some even pronounce it wrong. Thus it's difficult to hide how pleased she is that he seems to... Care, for a lack of better word. He didn't return her greeting though. 

"Professor Snape—Well I have questions about all of this, Slytherin and..." She isn't certain of how to formulate her problem. 

For the first time in her life, she has friends. Then, why doesn't she feel at home? Being in Slytherin is walking on eggshells, always worried that she will offend someone due to her lack of knowledge, or that her new buddies will leave her for being a know-it-all. The duality is maddening. 

"Surviving."

He has a muggle shirt underneath his jacket, and it's an odd contrast to her own clothing. Palm underneath his chin, elbow against his knee, he observes her once more. 

"I've seen you in the common room, you seem to hang with fellow first years, so what's the problem?" 

"I do—the others though, even my roommate, they don't hate me—they are far from kind either. All about no friendship, only alliances. Some of them mock me for things I cannot control even if I was given a book on how to be a better witch, it's a lot to master so quickly."

"Book?" He blinks, "Real book or trash on pureblood culture?" 

Her offended gasp must resonate through the whole corridor considering how loud it is. She loathes too much of what she is reading in this book, although that's her sole ressource. 

"You cannot call it trash, it's a different point of view, that's all." What if someone hears them? 

"Trash is trash. Telling us we should have been kidnapped during infancy is awful. You believe in that? Did they brainwash you—usually that's the kind who gets along with other Slytherins the best, if you appreciate being a doormat of course. Are you one, Hermione?"

"You're—twisting my words and being inconsiderate!" 

"Oh, before or after I suggested that you don't follow this crap? Or is the mention of fucking brainwashing?" Hyun-Soo manages to use a formal tone, polite and steady, while saying terrible things and she is taken aback. 

"If I follow the instructions, even only to some extend, Parkinson will accept me!" 

"Naive," the face is too close to her own now, Hyun-Soo judging her without care, "Equivalent exchange. Respecting them means they should respect you. Not," he makes a face suddenly, "Having their stupid rules used as an excuse to reject you. Even if you do it perfectly they'll find new ones. Over and over again. No no, your hair is wrong Granger, or your tie. Or the way you speak."

Hermione wants to shove him back. She can't. She was already unable to do it with her bullies at school so why would it be different now? He isn't wrong, that's the worst part. She gets it, truly. Once she has absorbed their conditions, there won't be any place for her. She'll be stuck on last names and keeping distances and not invading their space until she graduates. 

"Yeah, exactly," Hyun-Soo concludes, leaning on the other side. After a pregnant silence, he runs a hand through his hair, obviously uneasy. "There are other muggleborns in Slytherin. Not many, only five including us. The other three are in sixth and seventh year so—back then I tried to fit in too. Didn't work out." 

Hermione has teary eyes, although she is not crying. She has done that enough, hiding in the school library, having nothing but her fantasy world to shield her from reality. Her parents could have helped, except she's an only child, and they were always so proud of her... She didn't want to be a disappointment. Even now, she still feels that way. Bottling things up until she doesn't know what to do. 

"What did they do?" 

Hyun-Soo doesn't reply right away. He ruffles his hair instead, roughly, obviously hesitant. Nonetheless, he ends up removing his jacket, tugging on his shirt. There are a couple of small scars on his shoulders, akin to—impacts. 

Oh. 

"They hexed you," she's horrified. Slytherin is her house, her home. Sure she doesn't fit yet—she never imagined it could get that wrong. 

"They did. Unlike you, or the others, I don't follow rules I don't approve of. Respect has to be earned and none of them was worthy of that. They still aren't, most of my year mates, Slytherin in itself is fine. Actually, the bullying stopped when a group of older purebloods noticed," he pauses to put his jacket back on, "They went hard on the culprits. And Snape was informed so that cemented the whole thing. It was already May though. I had plenty of scars and pent up anger."

Feeling a bit nauseous, Hermione ignores what she should say. What if someone tried to throw a spell causing such pain at her? She—Defence Against the Dark Arts isn't providing any help in that department. 

Being different has always been hard. Hermione is naive, she agrees perhaps, about certain things, but aren't they supposed to get smarter as they grow up? Isn't it the same thing for bullies? She watches as he grabs the guitar, drumming his fingers against the chords once more. 

A bittersweet melody, long notes echoing into the empty place, devoid of life outside of them. Where did she go wrong? She wanted Slytherin, she even asked for it. A chance to—Leonis would say to aim as high as the stars, and he'd be right. 

"I'm not a doormat," she mumbles, biting the inside of her mouth until it's painful, "I'm definitely not."

Parkinson knows faces and names, alliances and rivals, she had no trouble telling her where Hyun-Soo would be either. That's her power. And Hermione has to figure out her own. Or else she'll be swept away. Her friends wouldn't understand. Three purebloods, at least she supposes, and Gabriel who is a half-blood. How could they comprehend the mockery she faces, the whispers and the way it could be a lot worse. Her belongings could be stolen, thrown away, clothes soiled and shoulder scarred. 

She understands the leather jacket, the t-shirt instead of the uniform once class is over. 

Hyun-Soo bears his differences as a weapon, guitar and muggle clothes. Makeup and sharp tongue. She'd like to unlock that sort of freedom, letting go of perfection she can't reach. All these years, making attempts at friendship, only for a train ride to change everything. 

And now she wants to fall into her old patterns? 

"I need guidance. I don't know which kind or what can I could offer in return—" 

"I'm not a pureblood, I don't care about debts and favors," the melody still hasn't stopped, wrapping around them in something which soothes her heart, even if it's only for a while, "dueling I can do. Or simply make sure that people know there is someone looking out for you."

Hermione, whose spells are fluid and admirable, her professors would tell you, cannot imagine using them against people. Not for a while, it's all too new to her. 

"You'd do that? For me?" 

"Don't get me wrong, I'm a Slytherin, and that's exactly why I'm going to assist. You offer me, on a silver platter, an opportunity to assert my mudblood statut by being a nuisance? I'm taking it."

"You—you used that word—"

"I do. Only when I wish to prove a point. You don't have to reclaim it, it's quite ugly after all."

"I don't want to," she admits, looking up. Oh, she hadn't noticed the colors dancing around them. Must be from the stained glass and a faint ray of sun outside. They dance against the stone wall and it's pretty.

"I understand why you like this place..." 

"Ah now it's fine, but warmer days? Swarmed with couples trying to kiss on every bench. Really annoying."

"That's disgusting!" 

"It totally is." Is he genuine or mocking her, she cannot tell. 

That's not too bad, to have her first ally in this mess anyway. Someone who isn't a friend although he understands the storm inside her heart. After a moment, as she is ready to take her leave, Hermione allows herself one last question. 

"Have they ever tried to damage your guitar?" 

"Plenty of times," done with the song he beckons her closer, as to whisper a secret, "I enchanted it, it burns the hands of anybody I dislike touching my precious instrument. Quite efficient."

Turning the guitar itself into the weapon, how clever. 

"One day, please teach me. That sounds... Enticing."

"Sure, sure, now scramble back to the common room, first year."

Hermione leaves part of her sorrows behind, even as she slips inside the snakes' den. She'll be okay, especially with someone like Hyun-Soo. 

  
▲ ▲ ▲

Halloween means a feast; nothing as tasty as his mother's cooking—another reminder he wrote only to Ginny and to nobody else until that point. He did get a letter from his parents urging him to seek contact, but he finds himself at a loss for what to say every time—although the pumpkin pie is so crusty outside and soft inside. Ah, absolutely delicious, a masterpiece. 

"Did you know that most recipes used by the house-elves are from Helga Hufflepuff herself," he tells Hermione, as she tends to love that stuff. 

"Let me make a note of that for later. Truly, it shows how invested she was into the school, and cooking I suppose. " 

On most days, they get along just fine.

Ron is a bit less open about enjoying knowing things than Hermione, as he was often teased by his siblings. And turning into Percy junior is a huge no on his part, thank you. There are moments where they clash though, over meaningless things and he isn't certain of whose fault it is.

A shame the others are missing out—Gabriel went to the kitchens to grab his dinner earlier before retreating back into his room, behind on his homework by an impressive margin due to a cold. And Blaise is keeping company to his brother in the infirmary. 

That was scarier than anything Halloween related, when Leonis collapsed in the middle of class, close to fainting. Blaise did not appear too concerned, catching him before he could hit the floor, as it tends to happen in the same appealing way every time, from his own words. He opted to keep company to the other, they're probably playing a quiet card game and eating a simpler meal. 

"Should we keep some stuff for Leonis and Blaise? Because this pie is to—" after a brief eye contact with the Bloody Baron, he opts to abort that sentence.

"We don't have fridges to preserve food in our rooms and I doubt the whole dinner is charmed." 

"True, 'would be nice to have a mini-fridge though. Like college students." 

She looks up, some crust on the corner of her lips, brows furrowed. He eventually gestures towards his own mouth until she gets the message. She uses her napkin whereas he would have preferred his sleeve but to each their own. 

"What did I say this time around?" 

"How do you know what a mini-fridge is? Or muggle college?" 

"I went to school?" 

"Muggle school?" 

They never had that particular conversation yet? Apparently not. Hitting his forehead with his palm, as he recalls he planned on telling her, Ronald quickly shoves what's left of his slice into his mouth. It gives some time for his brain to form complete sentences while ensuring no one is listening. Since their friends are absent nobody is sitting too close. 

"Okay, I have five older brothers, as you already know. My mom taught each of them, and we kinda passed down writing, and reading, and all that stuff down... It left my sister and I really bored during homeschooling, as the magical curriculum isn't that great b'fore Hogwarts. We begged to go to muggle school—the village next to our house is mostly composed of them and they have a small school. Like only one building and not many students. Truly helped with maths and literature and all that. Ginny is still going."

"Ronald Weasley! You could have told me." 

He kicks her under the table, foot finding the right victim quickly. 

"That's super frowned upon in the magical world—muggleborns can learn magic but the opposite is so offensive my parents didn't tell anybody so..."

Hermione, true to her passionate self, slams her palm against the table, ranting about how backward the magical system is. One day, that girl is gonna do really cool things. Which won't include pestering him about studying so often—honestly he doesn't mind it's even fun when he's in the mood. 

They make terrible Potions partners though. 

Too eager to prove the other wrong. He hates to admit it, honestly, but he almost finds solace in Malfoy's company. Only during that class, and as long the other keeps his mouth shut. He's really talented at potions though, and dedicated. Ronald can't relate as he's way better at Charms or Defence. Although the latter is more interesting when studied on his own.

Ah, the Percy curse is looming over him. 

As he laments over this possibility, the doors open on a terrible omen from—their Defence professor? 

What does he mean by 'Troll in the dungeons'? Considering the sudden panic, a quite real specimen of a troll mentioned —by Merlin's barb! 

"Do you think it's close to our common room?"

"No bloody idea!" 

Prefects are already rounding the students and they follow without having time to do anything else. It's obvious the troll isn't going to find them, since there are two older and experimented wizards with their wands drawn shielding them. Right? As they get into the dungeons, careful of heading straight for their common room, Hermion tugs on his arm, separating him from the group. 

In front of them, some of the girls are exchanging worried words about something which must be important for Hermione to interrupt. 

"Pansy wasn't at the feast, and they just said they hoped she wouldn't get hurt because of them."

"Parkinson? Really?" he doesn't mean to sound so disbelieving. Pansy isn't the kind of person he would mess with, which makes her being in trouble hard to imagine. 

"Really, Ron. What if she is somewhere in the dungeons alone?" 

"What if we get killed, you mean? Now that you mention it though, she seemed upset earlier, she even left the common room for dinner before us. I'd rather follow the prefect, maybe." 

The faint, barely audible, hint of hysteria in his tone isn't important. The thing is, the remaining part of the group is already a couple of steps ahead and if they want to go in the opposite direction they ought to think fast. 

"Where would she even be?" 

"Where would someone having a bad day seek refuge—"

They share a look, and Ron hopes they aren't going to blurt opposite things, that would be embarrassing.

"The girls' bathroom!" 

After a pause, Hermione's face falls. 

"Nobody with a brain would use the one in the dungeons though—" 

"Yeah, outside of an emergency they are so creepy—Let's check the remaining ones."

  
  


They rush upstairs together, wands not drawn as they are only children who lack that kind of habit. The smell is what gets to them first, it fills the whole hallway, Ron is left gagging at how much it stinks. No doubt, the troll came this way, and he can only hope it found another place to destroy by now. As they slide inside the bathroom, two terrified kids who aren't sure of what they doing, they hear a faint cry from one of the stalls. 

"Parkinson? You in there? There is a bit of a bloody emergency so would be nice if you could get out—" 

"Which kind of—" 

Right as a teary-eyed Pansy, trying to be as fierce as possible, unlocks the stall, stepping out, they hear it. Something heavy, reverberating across their bones. The sinks shake, if only a bit, and Hermione pushes him into the stall, following before locking it again. 

"A troll in on the loose."

"Is this some sort of sick joke?" 

"Trust us mate, it's not."

"Mate? Weasley you heathen—"

The sentence stops there, as the door of the bathroom is thrown off its hinges. In fright, they huddle together, all pretenses erased by the gigantic feet hitting the floor right in front of their eyes, club following close behind. Hermione has one hand against Ron's mouth, more or less stopping him from breathing which is inconvenient, and Pansy is stepping on his foot due to the lack of space. 

Once it's over, he considers asking her why she was crying. Only if they make it out alive. The first stall makes a frightening sound, as the club shatters wood into nothing. Then the following one endures the same treatment and in the span of a second Ron has the mind to drag both of them down as wood explodes above their heads. 

Noticing the children, and out of evident boredom—if you consider trolls are prone to that kind of feelings—it decides to make them its next target. It's likely that the creature caught a glimpse of Hermione and Ron running earlier to be honest. Remains of what once was a stall have invaded his hair and he coughs without meaning to. 

Now is not the time to craft a plan, only to find an escape route. Parkinson, unlike them, has taken out her wand, only to remain paralyzed in fear on the floor. 

Which spell to use? Heck, as if he had any idea. Hermione has the mind to help the other girl onto her feet, and the three of them quickly jump away from their hideout. 

The club is relentless, albeit slow. 

Each time the troll fails to hit them, it spends a moment contemplating its mistake, stunned at the lack of blood and organs underneath his weapon. If they do not wish to be crushed—

They scream, all together finally united as Snape wanted. A shame it'll be in death. 

Hermione, brilliant as she is, gestures towards the mirrors, still intact. 

What does she—ah, could give them enough seconds. 

He nods, grabbing Parkinson's hand, as Hermione suddenly points behind the troll.

"Another troll! We're doomed!" 

Her dramatic act could use some work, which doesn't matter as the creature turns around, terribly offended that someone wishes to steal its fun. Its own horrible face is too much to stomach, rival having to be annihilated. That offers them the window to rush for the now gone door. 

They are a flurry mess, tripping on debrits on their way out. The glass explodes by their side right as they reach for the hallway. At the last second, the troll understands this was a trap, turning around, face twisted by fury. 

Where are their teachers? 

Blood gushes from Pansy's cheek, nothing too terrible. A glass shard must have hit her at some point. She seems more alert now, still unable to find the right spell or anything at all. 

Her other hand is still in his, and Hermione is standing by their side. All three of them, against the end of the world. Where to run—they won't be fast enough, no matter how many tricks they try to pull out. 

As someone lets out a sob—that might be him—Ron grabs his wand too. He has no idea what to do with it, he might have earlier, when terror had not numbed his mind. 

"Fumos!" 

The visibility is suddenly so poor, senses hindered, that he barely registers the hands grabbing and ushering them towards the stairs. It's only once they are down a couple of steps, hearing the troll's confused groan upstairs, that he pays attention to the person behind them, urging them to go forward. 

"Hyun-Soo!"

"Hermione, why were you facing a troll with your friends? The feast wasn't that of an annoyance, was it?" 

How can he joke at a time like this when Ron wants to throw up or hide underneath blankets? Perhaps both, in that order.

As they reach the common room, still whole in its green and silver glory, Hyun-Soo only has to give a nod to the prefect waiting in front of the door to be let in without questions. Everyone else must be sheltered in their room, as they find the place empty outside of another prefect inside. She gives them a long look, before taking into account their ragged appearance. 

"Dan, what were you doing outside?" 

"Ah, I forgot I promised these three to play for them after the feast—so I went to rescue them. No one needs to know that, right?" 

She has the stern expression of someone who disapproves without saying anything, only casting a spell to heal Pansy's cheek. 

"Go to your respective rooms, now. Before I change my mind."

She must have heard about Pansy from the remaining first years, Ron realizes a bit too late as they stand in front of the large window showing them the murky waters of the lake. That's why she isn't punishing them. Hyun-Soo bids them farewell awfully fast, probably to hide in case of a fallout. Judging by his looks, and well the way he referred to Hermione, they might be friends. Or something Slytherin-like. 

"Granger, Weasley." 

Oh, about that. Parkinson, shaken by the whole ordeal, observes them for a moment, one after another.

"Why did you come? Fighting a troll, that's foolish—" 

"Hey we were looking for you!" 

"Care to repeat that, Weasley?" 

"Ron's telling the truth. We caught the girls saying you were upset and how it was their fault, then we deduced your location."

Pansy is flabbergasted, wiping at her eyelids furiously as tears return. For someone to do this for her, that must be hard to believe, in the same fashion Ron thought she would never get into that kind of trouble earlier.

"We're tired, we should go to bed," Hermione eventually offers, as a peace offering. Their rooms are on opposite sides, separated, thus Ron supposes it's time to leave them and forget it even happened. 

However, as he has already turned around, a hand wraps around his wrist, forcing him to abandon his retreat. Grip too tight on both of them, Parkinson swallows harshly.

She tugs them into a brutal embrace which is far from pleasant. 

Ron gets it nonetheless, the 'thank you' she cannot say. 

"No problem, Parkinson."

As she relents her grip, walking with Hermione to their room, he does the same. Only to realize he has one hell of a story to share with Leonis once he's back from the infirmary. 

First, it's shower then nap time. 

  
  


It's a relief to hear the troll was stopped by their professors the following morning, after an unfortunate and unexplainable rampage in the first floor girls' bathroom.

As Parkinson sits next to Hermione at the table, to everyone' shock outside of a fourth year having the time of his life for some reason, he offers her a polite nod. 

That's their version of a warmth welcome. 

  
  
  



	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I'm honored by all the bookmarks and kudos!
> 
> This fic aka Regulus/Leonis realizes he has friends and tries to back pedal really fast but it's too late.  
> featuring Neville getting adopted by scary kids with questionable methods.  
> And, of course, the author wondering if they can reach Third Year and write this heartbreaking Sirius and Regulus reunion—

Flipping through a magazine, Blaise listens to the Great Hall buzzing around him, the excitement of the first Quidditch match of the season taking over. If you ask him, that sport is overrated; no competition allowed as there isn't another discipline available outside of playing on broomsticks. At least, more sensible schools allow a more refined catalogue of activities. Hogwarts, for all its glorious reputation in Europe, doesn't offer much outside of the assigned curriculum.

He should enlighten Malfoy on what could be done to improve their schooling, except that he doesn't wish to dwell into politics so early in the morning. Not when his tea is still warm, and sunny side eggs are nuzzled in his stomach, being digested slowly.

By his side, Leonis is asleep against the table, using his arms as a pillow. Unproper, heavy on the spine, none of that being Blaise's problem. He basks in the growing silence when students start to head outside.

Obviously, not going would be a faux-pas of an unprecedented magnitude. He isn't eager to freeze under the unfavorable weather though.

Ah, the sacrifices he makes for his house. Slytherin has not won in a couple of years, which explains why Snape himself made a speech to the team in the common room, urging them to restore glory for their house and all that scripted sort of encouragement.

"Zabini, I urge you to lift your posterior from the bench, or else we'll be badly seated."

"Of course, Parkinson. I wouldn't want to miss anything," he replies, nudging Leonis in the ribs with his fist, "May I inquire when you started to be a part of—our group."

"None of your concern," she flaunts her emerald gloves at him, before stepping towards Granger and Weasley, who appear to be as troubled as he is with this new development.

Oh, better to have her with them than following Malfoy, he guesses.

Leonis opens one eye after the other, not quite healed from his last fainting spell. He has to lean on his brother a bit until he's back onto his feet.

"This is going to be a disaster—losing to Gryffindor, can you picture it?"

"Invested in sports on this bright morning, brother?"

"Hmpf, I wouldn't go that far. I'm merely—forget it."

  
  


With Gabriel joining them a bit late, Slytherin scarf tightly wrapped around his neck, they head as one to the match. Finding seats isn't such a dramatic affair, unlike what he expected. In fact, they are high enough to have proper visibility, in spite of the fog of November.

"Flint is going to be insufferable for the whole year if we lose this one," Parkinson remarks, rather chatty today, "Don't you think—Granger, you brought a book?"

"Ron told me it could last for hours, how am I supposed to stay focused for so long?"

"You are unbelievable. Albeit clever, as his statement is indeed true."

The compliment causes all of them to look at the girl until she glares back. 

"Mind your own business. Weasley, are you studying too?"

Ron, busy taking a notebook out of his bag—terribly muggle-like of him, Blaise notes, alongside colorful pens. 

"Nope, it's to analyse the various strategies employed—not that I want to outsmart them or anythin'. I'm just really into that stuff?" 

With a sheepish smile, he starts to note the date in a corner of the page, leaving Parkinson to sigh without adding anything. No doubt she believes to be surrounded by complete nerds. 

By Blaise' side, Gabriel, wrapped in enough clothing to ensure he doesn't catch another cold, seems to be feeling better. 

"I talked with Longbottom today—or rather we bumped into each other, he told me he wanted to talk to Leonis."

Ignoring the mention of his name, his brother is leaning over the wooden railing, arms crossed over it as he watches the match starting in concentration.

"Oh? What did he want?" 

"To be honest, he wasn't making a lot of sense, something about a creature hidden in the castle?" 

An opportunity for trouble, then. Blaise can take that as a mean of entertainment to avoid looking at the Gryffindor's beater causing their keeper to almost fall off his broom. It has only been one minute, can't they wait? 

"He didn't mention any detail which would narrow the creature's identity?" 

"Only that he met it in the forbidden corridor."

Hard to repress a sly smile at that. 

"Durlsey, I hope you insisted on the keyword with him, which is 'forbidden' in that case." 

"I did, but I fear he's going to let the information slip out during lunch or dinner," Gabriel makes the kind of sour face you get after swallowing a lemon whole, obviously displeased at the possibility of an array of Gryffindors unleashed in the hallways.

An understandable thing, really. Self-preservation is rarely a trait esteemed among that house. As he is on the verge of opening his mouth to offer a possible solution—an ambush, really—his brother is suddenly shouting by his side. Which takes him aback greatly.

"That's not how you play! Don't they have honor?! Their chaser slammed into ours and not even a penalty?" 

It's rare for Leonis to be passionate about things. Especially since Blaise thought it would be one of his bad days where his brother is merely more than groggy and struggling to pay attention. At least, it's more convenient than his dark moods. 

"Will you sit down, you're ruining the view!" 

Begrudgingly, Leonis listens to Parkinson, crashing back on the bench with obvious displeasure. 

"Next year you can try to get on the team," Weasley suggests, making a valiant attempt at being helpful. Only for Leonis to snarl at him. 

"My health prevents me from such thing, you're welcome to join and improve our team though."

As Weasley goes back to taking notes, mumbling about not being talented enough, Durlsey unfazed by the sudden outburst from Leonis, fake coughs to get his attention again. 

"My apologies, I got distracted, we were talking about borrowing Longbottom, right?" 

"I guess so—you don't mean kidnapping right?" 

He hears Granger loudly complaining about kidnapping being illegal, and a cause of expulsion. However, having a sibling means that Blaise is talented at ignoring certain pesky voices when he needs to. 

"Obviously not. It would be a shame to get into trouble. Also, Longbottom is alright, for what I've seen. He is from a Noble and Ancient House too, thus I doubt any harm coming to him would serve the school's reputation." 

"Is he?" Gabriel, unable to hide his surprise, lets out a small 'oh' seconds later. 

"Indeed. His grandmother kept him from most social events in the pureblood circle of Great Britain, just as my mother did, therefore I wouldn't be able to tell you much about him."

Gabriel, who isn't as curious as Hermione about pureblood society, which makes sense since he has a basic knowledge of magic, doesn't add anything after that outside of casual chatter about the match. They'll take care of the Longbottom situation later. 

While they are leading, by a slight margin, Gryffindor has an excellent team. Not even the better brooms, yet their strategy is brutal and without allowing prisoners, especially thanks to the twins' impeccable timing with each other. They deflect bludgers with such ease—

"Granger, isn't your new friend a substitute chaser?" 

With a deer in the headlights look, she lifts her gaze from her book, unable to formulate an answer. 

"Beater," Parkinson corrects, pressing her gloves against the back of her neck. Blaise supposes they are enchanted to remain warm, "He refused to be on the main rooster due to practice interfering with his Music class."

"There is a Music class?" 

"It's an extra-curricular, Granger. Only available from third year and onward."

"Fascinating."

"If you say so, why were you asking, Zabini?" 

"Oh, you know, in case of one of our players getting killed."

Considering the absolute horror on Granger's face at his words, he should have prefaced his sentence by saying it was a joke. Weasley is quick to confirm that passing away from blunt trauma at school is extremely rare these days, which doesn't seem to completely calm her down. 

As the whole group is captivated for different reasons by what's happening on the pitch, a victorious scream is heard from the opposite side. In spite of the fog, it's easy to catch a glimpse of the golden treasure Gryffindor' seeker is holding in their hand.

Cue long groans and protests from the Slytherin, and Snape looking at them like he is planning someone's funeral. 

"It's all because of the brooms, I tell you—Once I make it onto the team, I'm getting everyone the latest Nimbus!"

Before anyone has the mind to stop him, Leonis has decided to lean a bit too much over the railing. 

"Buying your place alongside the brooms, Malfoy?" 

It takes both Dursley and the older Zabini to tug him back and avoid a shouting match between the two. At times, his brother is truly incomprehensible. Where does this sudden passion about Quidditch come from? 

  
▲ ▲ ▲

Terrified, and clearly outnumbered, Longbottom presses his back against the wall, eyes frantically looking for an escape route. 

"Didn't you want to have a conversation?" 

"With you, not your whole squad—" 

Leonis, staring at the five students around him, pretends to appear as surprised as Longbottom is by their presence. 

"Ah, we are far from a squad, I assure you."

That remark earns him a scornful look from Parkinson. Although it's not enough for the snake to take his gaze away from his prize. Instead, he slams a hand on the wall next to Longbottom's head, trapping him. A callous behavior, almost predatory and unfit of a proper Slytherin. Right now though, they need answers. 

"What happened in the forbidden corridor? Were you attacked?" 

That's not concern, Leonis isn't talented at faking that. Still, Longbottom is under his protection, sort of. Let's say he'd rather not let people ruin his Potions' partner. And there are the—similarities between then, only at the core. The faint signs of abuse lingering in his posture, the way the boy seems always on the verge of shattering into broken sobs. 

Leonis' dark eyes remain on Longbottom for a while, until he can blurt out the truth.

"No, I got stranded outside because I couldn't remember the password, and then I got lost—I saw—a giant three-headed dog! Guarding a trap door!" 

He slowly slips against the wall until he is sitting on the floor. It's obvious the whole encounter has shaken him, in a similar way Parkinson grabs Hermione's arm each time she wants to use the bathroom these days. 

Crouching in front of him, which doesn't seem odd at all in the middle of the hallway—anybody passing by would believe in bullying immediately. The vile snakes against the poor lion—Leonis allows a reprieve. 

"I didn't tell—but Seamus insisted to know why I was out so late and he keeps on—" 

"Please, don't tell me he's going to cry."

"Parkinson!"

None of them is equipped for that kind of situation. Except, perhaps, Dursley, who folds his legs underneath him on the floor next to Longbottom. 

"Are you alright?" 

He has the mind to ask the most important question, the one that Leonis might have forgotten to focus on facts instead.

"I keep on having nightmares and—" Neville sniffles, obviously embarrassed to be in that situation. He's a kid though, they are all. 

Leonis bitterly remembers that part as Dursley lifts his eyes towards him. A steady and firm gaze. 

"We could investigate."

"We are not Gryffindors, we avoid jumping recklessly to conclusions without a plan." 

"Oh I can do that—A plan I mean, yeah," Weasley offers, still holding his notes from the match in one hand. And perhaps the plan could be to talk to Snape, rather than causing an uproar by getting expelled before Christmas.

Trusting authority figures though—Leonis has to agree he doesn't truly enjoy that possibility. Especially Snape. 

"Longbottom, try to keep the secret, if you can. No, definitely lock it inside your mouth," while the boy can only nod weakly, and now that Dursley has offered him a handkerchief, Leonis has no choice but to trust the other to keep himself together, "If anybody bothers you, come to us." 

"Really? But you're Slytherins—" 

"That's why we are the superior choice," Parkinson, eloquent as usual, leans forward, crossing her arms on Leonis' head to show a terrifying grin to Longbottom, "No one would dare to mess with the ones we protect." 

Longbottom isn't a hatching in dire need of care—or maybe he is. Leonis has questions for him, the kind he won't ask—purebloods closing their eyes in front of mistreatment of their own in the name of blood purity—stuck at the back of his throat forever. He does shove Parkinson off him though. 

"And if they bypass that warning, they'll face consequences."

"See, even Granger agrees."

Despite Parkinson's tone, Longbottom appears to be hesitant once more. Used to others making decisions in his name, for sure. Leonis sighs, getting up and offering both hands to help them do the same. One to Longbottom and one to Dursley. 

The latter accepts it right away, whereas he is left hanging for almost twenty seconds until Longbottom accepts to do the same. Finally. As he told him before they are allies in Potions, and now with everything else too. 

Overwhelming for someone who came to Hogwarts without planning on making friends they are more of a fellowship though. At least, Leonis hopes so. He has no idea how to behave alongside people he is allowed to trust. 

"Go to your dorm to rest, we're going to—" 

"The library!" 

"As Granger suggested, we will look up sightings of three-headed dogs, plans of the castle and whatever can be useful to your endeavor."

"You'll update me in a couple of weeks, if it's okay with you, obviously!" 

"That sounds fair, Longbottom."

Once he is on his merry way to a nap, or at least to a calm environment for a couple of hours—if the Gryffindors don't decide to celebrate all night long, Leonis scratches at the back of his hand with his nails. 

"We are not going to visit that dog until we know what we are doing, am I clear?" 

"None of us has a death wish, Leo." 

"I prefer when you're sarcastically calling me brother—" 

"Of course, Leo~" 

"Urg. Onward to the library, before I murder one of you."

They have walked most of the way when Dursley recalls the library is meant to be closed on game day. Which turns their quest for answers into eating chocolate frogs and doing homework in the common room. They are an odd sigh, on armchairs and cushions laid on the floor alike, exchanging answers and teasing—even Parkinson seems to blend into the group bit by bit. They won't change her views, nor she will cease to follow ancestral rules, they might not have to. She doesn't mind giving her notes to Hermione, even snickering at Weasley's terrible jokes or the way Dursley has to make an impressive jump to catch a stray chocolate frog before it can vanish forever into the dungeons. 

  
▲ ▲ ▲

November's warm colors turn into the hollow wind of December, most trees devoid of leaves, simply awaiting for better days to grow again. Students do the same, planning to hide back at home to avoid the homework piling on their desks, teachers growing more and more relentless as if they had to ensure they couldn't have a day of peace over the holidays. At least, it's what many believe. The first year Slytherins are mostly done with their schoolwork outside of a stray Potions or Charms essay. Snape truly wishes to push them as much as he can—

Ah, Hermione has started to realize Potions isn't her forte. That's disappointing, but she is solemnly interested in the theory part of the subject, finding potion making in itself dull and lacking interest. She craves classes where she can feel her magic running across her face and fingers. Transfiguration and Charms, that's where she can reach excellence. Astronomy too—from an hobby mocked by her peers in primary school, it turned into something practical and important, which fills her with glee.

  
On the last lesson before Christmas break, they lay with the others, on warm blankets, and under them too, on top of the Astronomy tower. The sky is magnificent, in spite of her nose and cheeks being so red she has to almost cover her whole face with her scarf. That's what they promised, on the train, to watch the stars together. 

All six of them form one, heads against one another, and legs sprawled in the opposite direction. They're a bit too bundled up to take notes or anything, not that the teacher minds. It's probably their Christmas gift, in a way. Hermione planned one for each of the first friends she ever had—sure Zabini junior doesn't approve of the term, often uneasy, a bit away from them when they regroup as one chaotic unit, he's part of this even against his will though—and she hopes to reach their hearts.

Cheesy, isn't it? 

And what's wrong with opening up? She is careful, threading as a snake. One wearing sneakers with her uniform, because why not, it's practical. She's a witch, and the daughter of muggles. Her own kind of Slytherin. At least Hyun-Soo approves. Oh, she got him something too—for keeping an eye on her well-being—a bag of sweets, approved by her parents as acceptable as long as you don't eat it in one go. She even found chocolates shaped like music keys! 

"Wish me luck, guys—" 

"Weasley are you talking to the stars or us?" 

"You think I'd call the stars 'you guys'?" 

Someone laughs, muffled sound underneath a scarf. Probably Gabriel.

"I'm going to see my parents for Christmas, and I hope it'll go okay. Can't be sure—" 

He wrote to them, that much she knows. Only once. A long letter, filled with erased sentences, ink spilled everywhere, until he got it right. Hermione has not pried further, as she understands that it's not her place to do so. All she can do is hope he won't return with his heart shattered. 

"Your parents are blood traitors, getting sorted into Slytherin is pretty tame in comparison." 

"What would I do without you, Parkinson?" 

"Not much, I fear." 

Hands joined over her stomach, Hermione listens to the usual banter surrounding her. For the first time, she'll return home with real stories, instead of having to make up her inclusion to avoid saddening her parents. 

"Everybody is going home?" 

A chorus of 'Yeah', 'yes', 'I'm trying to nap, shut up', and 'definitely' answers her. Nobody will be alone.

She would have enjoyed celebrating with them too, to be honest. If only to watch Pansy's horrified face at the friendship bracelet she got her as a joke gift, the real one hidden underneath. She hesitated for a long time, before settling on a box of muggle nail polish. That was complicated to get everything too, she had to write to her parents with instructions and wait for their answer every time—an effort she doesn't regret. 

"Do you people have to be so loud?" 

She blinks away dreams to notice a freezing Malfoy, blanket draped around his shoulders akin to a regal cape, staring down at them. A part of her, tiny and tucked underneath years of abuse from her peers, wants to tug him down with them. If Pansy can join, why not him? She doesn't dare to do so though. And neither do the others. 

"We are recreating a muggle ceremony performed at night in which people exchange horrifying stories and tales about their crushes quite often, while eating only junk food, haven't you heard about the concept?" 

Malfoy is beet red, cursing Blaise so low they can't hear. With all the dignity he can muster, he turns around, almost getting tangled into the blanket. An incredibly tired sigh later and he's on way down to go back to warmer places. 

"Sleepovers do not belong only to muggles, Zabini!" He shouts anyway, turning around. 

It only causes the boy to hum in confirmation. After all, they are six wizards having an excellent party together. Or rather five, as Leonis has apparently fallen asleep within the last minutes, completely buried underneath a bright red blanket he stole from the Gryffindor's pile. Hermione supposes they can stay there a bit longer, as she isn't keen on waking him up, without catching a cold if possible.

Whispering, only to herself and what's above, she makes one single wish. 

_May we stay friends for a long time_. 

  
  
  
  
  



	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Christmas special! Aka the kids coming home ft their mothers. Thank you so much for your kudos and comments, it's super encouraging!

The barrier stands—a reminder of another world, trapped behind bricks, a constant proof that the separation is meant to remain. Lips pursued in a thin line, Petunia Dursley squeezes her purse with both hands before crossing.

As a child, it was worse, to be able to accompany Lily only to find herself ashore on the empty platform, train long departed and nothing but jealousy inside her veins. She recalls playing pretend, foolish squib that she was, sitting on a bench with her eyes firmly closed. The train would return back for her, everyone apologizing for forgetting a kid on her own.

Ah, instead she found herself returning into the muggle world, parents gushing about Lily and her dreams nothing more than imagination.

(Lily died. In front of her boy. James sprayed on the rug downstairs—all she got was a letter, assuring her that everything would be fine—and nothing was.)

Parents and younger siblings are packed on the platform, awaiting for their family to praise or scold them. She stands among them, nails digging into leather, wondering how she would feel if Dudley was also on that train, laughing alongside Gabriel.

(All she craved—to belong, to be as great and chivalrous and fantastic as her sister—turned into rejection, something impossible to mend. What she got was a bundle of tears on her doorstep and ink on paper.)

Dudley is perfectly happy going to the school close to their home, able to return every evening with a bag too heavy for his back and shoes forgotten in the entryway as soon as he's inside. She reminds herself of that fact for a moment, carefully folding her mind to ease the anxiety growing inside her.

What if Gabriel grows into loving them more, abandoning her for wars and horrors, just because they think he should? Next to her, a little girl laughs, fiery red hair and denim overalls over a colorful sweater. She still has her school bag over one shoulder, eyes gleaming with joy.

(Lily loved frogs, capturing them only to feel them croak between her hands. Always gentle, always careful. Petunia recalls finding it disgusting, although she doesn't know why. Lily would laugh, releasing the little creatures back into their pond, knees covered in mud and grins eating her face.)

She opens her purse, taking out a box of mints, crushing one with her teeth.

Gabriel is coming home, he's fine.

As the train enters the station, right on time, the child bounces on her heels, mother allowing her to dash forward as soon as the students start to get off.

Petunia follows her with her gaze, the way she throws her body at a boy who must be her brother, the poor child dropping what he was holding to avoid both of them crashing on the ground.

By Petunia' side, however, their mother hasn't moved yet. She is, like herself, hesitant to go forward, hands holding a green woolen hat tightly.

"Mom!"

She recognizes Gabriel's voice, lowering herself to press a kiss against his cheek as soon as he is close.

"Gaby. Let me inspect you," she makes him spin around, checking for wounds, for anything wrong, "you seem in one piece."

He rolls his eyes, hesitantly reaching for her hand. In a couple of years, or even this Summer, he'll claim to have outgrown that kind of nonsense. She should cherish it, yet she hesitates for one second.

(That's the child she once locked in a cupboard out of convenience, refusing to acknowledge his existence—that's the child she loves as much as her own, now.)

Petunia gives an awkward squeeze, although it's there, it's something and she is trying.

"Mom, that's my friends, Ron and Hermione," he quickly introduce the boy with his sister clinging to him and another, shy, student who is standing with her parents, "we've exchanged phone numbers and addresses—"

"My family doesn't have a phone, I can use the mailbox just fine though," the boy explains, brightly. Judging by his sister's outfit, and obvious school supplies on her back, she would have thought they were muggles. Apparently not.

Because Petunia isn't eleven, all alone and bitter on the platform, she smiles at both of them, assuring that they appreciate receiving mail not delivered by owl.

In fact, Petunia isn't fond of birds landing straight into her porridge first thing in the morning. She avoids saying so.

What matters is how Gabriel waves at his friends when they part ways, and the fact he leans against her only for a second, whispering how good it is to be home.

(Ah, Lily wouldn't be so mad at her, if she could see them now, she hopes.)

  
▲ ▲ ▲

Molly has no time to speak, overwhelmed by the children moving at their own pace, a blur of red and green, dragging her around without allowing reprieve. They're filling the blanks on purpose, terrified of what could crash upon them.

She's so proud of both of them—worried too. Aren't all parents enduring the same trial? Wishing for them to grow in their own body, only to find the process too fast and badly planned. Ginny, arm wrapped around Ron' shoulders, tells him about school, her muggle friends and their games. She babbles over her latest soccer match, how she can't wait to dance in the air at Hogwarts, and—

"Ginevra, we do not say 'kick ass'!"

"I totally didn't mean to say it that way—sorry mom."

She is mischief as much as the twins, as smart as Charlie or Percy—she learned from each of them, like Ronald did. That's why, when she watches them, the product of that education, of tricks and secrets, they are akin to twins. Ron wouldn't allow the others to be so close, to nudge him into the ribs without protests and shouts. With Ginny, he's softer. Sharper too. 

(They think she has never caught them, as dawn settled in, running to the shack and taking out brooms, racing each other to the field. 

Molly watched, picturing laughter and carelessness as they made the colorful sky theirs if only for thirty minutes.)

She's still holding the woolen hat, unsure of what to do with it. Perhaps not now. Sliding it into the pocket of her coat, she reminds herself she has time to make Ron feel at home. Again. Her youngest boy and his late letter, as if he couldn't be certain of their reaction.

(When did they teach him fear? At which point has Slytherin turned into a cruel word, an insult even. She isn't certain.

They buried so many bodies, before these two grew inside of hers—her brothers, laying next to each other, their faces peaceful in what was only horror, an endless battle of light against darkness where they had to turn into monsters too. 

It was easier, by then, to pretend their actions wouldn't have consequences due to the situation—interrogations and trials so quick, so brutal, that her hands are still trembling if she focuses for too long. 

Weren't they right, in the end? 

Does it matter, to Ronald and Ginevra?)

"A shame your brothers didn't want to come home, I even made my special cauliflower soup. Perhaps too much. Oh well, I count on you two to drink it all!" 

Ron's favorite—and, in all honesty, one of the sole ways to make him eat that sort of vegetable—which isn't mere luck. She wanted to say 'I love you' in the way she is the more at ease with. 

"Thanks," the smile is weak, although it's here, on Ronnie's lips. And she wonders what he'll think of the green garlands his sister put everywhere in the house—even above the toilet—to make him feel at ease. 

It's a bit too much, although Ginny is like that sometimes. Ah, she loves both of them. 

(They battled against her to go to muggle school, Arthur too excited at the prospect of learning more about the culture to be truly supportive of her doubt. 

Worry has laced her heart for too long, imagining what could happen—wrong turns taken on the way, children lost to the madness of hatred—making her stand her ground until they proved they could also do the same. 

And they only returned with more than she could have imagined—friends inviting them to birthday parties, afternoons spent playing soccer together or simply running around the village for the sake of it. 

Molly was forced to push aside her own prejudices, the ones she didn't think she carried in her heart until then.) 

"I have other friends, Pansy Parkinson, Blaise and Leonis Zabini—" 

She hears in his voice how it's hard for him too. These children are certainly good kids, if her son says so—she won't allow herself to think otherwise—which doesn't mean their parents would accept nor understand. 

That's why they left the train separately. 

(Molly knows. Oh she knows the Parkinsons played a part in the last war, she knows what it was like, all of them bloody and drained—) 

"You'll have to tell me their favorite color, so I can knit a little something for them." 

(She still wakes up in a jolt, checking Bill's room for a crying toddler, shadowed figure visible behind the window—she knows of the hatred and the fear and everything which can be taken away. 

The Parkinsons must feel the same way.)

"I'm getting a sweater?" 

"Ronald Bilius Weasley, of course you're getting one, what did you imagine?" 

The worst. 

Ah, that's the kind of family habit they'll have to work on. For now, as he beams, finally trusting his surroundings enough, she is simply glad he's here. 

  
▲ ▲ ▲

Three daughters. One almost married, close to twenty, sitting next to her fiance on the couch, hands laced together, gloves ensuring the contact doesn't go too far—surrounded by happiness and approval, in spite of being unable to carry the family name. Another, fifteen, prefect, coming out of her room only for dinner; tongue laced with complaints about her studies and the materials, sub-par at best. The third one, not quite twelve, foul moods and questions dodged when they are not pleasant to her ears. 

Adela watches how they barely interact, social circles careful to never get tangled together. That's for the best, she assures her husband—one will rise in their name, the second aiming for the ministry, the third being no more than a whim of her early thirties.

(The little girl she spun into her arms when no one was watching, the child she sat in front of her mirror, spending hours braiding her hair while telling her about their world.

The same Pansy who grabbed scissors and cut her hair into an uneven bob a week before Hogwarts, claiming it was time for a change, handing her the golden scissors so she could adjust the mess without adding anything. 

Where did this insolence come from? 

The books her smallest child spent hours reading, rules perfectly imprinted against her tongue, should have stopped such deviance.)

She doesn't bother knocking on her door, as that's for servants—parents are beyond the right of privacy, they exist to ensure their children aren't led astray—half-expecting her daughter to be holding a picture of the young Malfoy heir, giggles escaping her.

That would be—understandable considering her age. They have, after all, taught her to prefer a strong marriage candidate over a better looking, but less favored by birth, one. It's also obvious that Pansy is her little girl and shouldn't concern herself over matters her parents can manage in her name once she is older.

What greets her, instead, outside a polite nod, is her child laying on her stomach on the bed, textbooks open around her.

"Oh my, you've become quite the studious type, is this Ursula's influence?" 

At the mention of her sister, Pansy scowls, not bothering to hide her disdain for the older girl. As long as she behaves properly in front of guests, that's not yet a punishable offense. 

"Only my own, mother."

(Where did the kid who laughed at her smile and followed her everywhere went? 

Adela pretends to have forgotten about the remarks, of the wand hitting fingers when ink was spilled over new dresses or dinners spent alone for a child who got lost in the myriad of cuttery in front of her eyes.)

Sitting down on the bed, as elegant as she can be, Adela tucks stray hair behind her daughter's ear, glancing at what she is working on. 

"Transfiguration? That's your dear father's favorite. Didn't you write you were almost done with your homework before returning, though?"

"I am planning ahead. The librarian authorized me to bring a couple of books on the topic home, thus here I am."

No mention of the Malfoy heir or any friends. 

While it might appear wrong to let a child spy on her sister, how else is she meant to obtain information if Pansy refuses to write her about her relationships?

(Truly, Adena only has her daughter's well-being in mind.)

"Ursula has written about your closeness to Heir Zabini and their brother—" 

"Blaise isn't heir, mother. The Zabinis are matriarchal, remember?" 

"Ah, yes. Blaise isn't in position to inherit," she doesn't dwell more on the topic, as that's something which only concerns the Zabini matriarch and no one else. 

Pansy sits up, still in the middle of her Transfiguration paradise. 

"I suppose she has also informed you of my other acquaintances?" 

"She mentioned two half-bloods, and Weasley."

Relief washes on Pansy's face so fast, only to be locked away right after—is she missing something? 

"Weasley is nothing like his brothers. He's a proud Slytherin who aims to reclaim the family name," Chin up, voice steady, it sounds like a bit like something learned by heart, "in fact, he has assisted me over school work a couple of times and I judge his company adequate."

(Since when does her child craft plans without coming to her for guidance first?) 

"Oh, then I suppose I see no reason to avoid his presence. Are there girls in the group?" 

"One of the half-bloods, Granger. I have taken her under my wing to ensure she learns the protocol and our customs."

Adela would have enjoyed hearing about this in the living room, the two of them sitting on the couch in front of the foyer, Pansy eagerly whispering everything about her first months away from home. Instead, each reply seems harder than the previous one.

What a shame. 

"Our guests might need my presence, I shall leave you to your studies. Be down at nine. You'll find new dresses and shoes in your dresser."

"Thank you, mother." 

(She might miss a little girl she created out of thin air.)

▲ ▲ ▲

On Christmas' morning, owls twirl in the living-room, dropping packages and stealing bacon or even a scone or two. Ophelia would take pictures, if they could be still. It's not quite the 'magical' celebration she had in mind. As her husband kisses her on the cheek, cracking a joke about neighbors calling animal control on them—which would be unfortunate, especially on that day—the last owl finds its way outside, leaving only an egg on her plate.

So much for breakfast, right? 

She sighs, a bit in disbelief at what just happened—all the details she didn't take into account when Hermione was jumping up and down, holding the letter as if she had always known who she was. 

(Isn't it worth it? To endure a bit, if her daughter can write she found classmates to eat with instead of spending lunches at the library, pretending it was to read a bit longer—

They should have known, be more vigilant. Rather than accepting every word as truth, despite the light slowly fading from the daughter's eyes.)

As she's munching on what's left of her meal, mug of coffee in her free hand, she hears the footsteps of a careful child. The kind looming at the top of the stairs, assessing the situation in her pajamas before climbing the steps one after another. 

"Did I hear owls?" 

"They delivered a couple of packages, that was quite a show."

Hermione, deep in thoughts, inspects the table first, bacon long gone and Christmas cookies still intact. 

"Did you give them food and water?" 

"Darling, they served themselves without our assistance," Ophelia laughs a bit, because owls. In their house. That sure is a sight. She doesn't mind, it's simply—a whole new world in which they can't always be close enough to their daughter. 

(When she went to school on their street, they missed the signs until she was long gone on that bright train; parents admitting unsavory truths to repent for what they hadn't taught their children properly.)

"That's good, wouldn't want them to fly on an empty stomach," Hermione nods to herself, before stepping in her fleeced socks towards the tree. 

"This one's from Ron—oh, there is a package from Gabriel, and Blaise—" 

Suddenly, her daughter lets out a strangled sound which causes the mug to be put down immediately. With Sebastian they walk to their daughter crouched down in the midst of packages, terrified of something wrong happening. 

(Wizards wouldn't send trapped packages or cruel gifts, would they? 

She isn't certain, like she couldn't let go of Hermione in Diagon alley, terrified she would get swallowed by that world.) 

"Pansy sent me a present!" 

"Your roommate?" 

"Yes dad! I did give her one but—they all got me something even without knowing I'd do the same," her smile is tentative, fingers tracing the corners of the package in anticipation. It's obvious she is going to shred it apart soon, too caught in the magic of the day. In retrospect, it wouldn't be a terrible idea, as guests will arrive in three hours and Ophelia isn't eager to have potential weird gifts being in the open. She whispers to Hermione that the ones from family will have to wait but she's free to go ham on those.

She watches, camera in her husband's hands this time—although he is still hesitant, like she is.

(This cannot be a farce, that would be far too cruel to their daughter.)

The gloves are absolutely beautiful, made of a green material which shimmers a bit underneath the light. Hermione waves them so her parents can't see. 

"Pansy has similar ones, they are charmed to keep hands warm during cold months."

"How thoughtful of your friend."

"Ronald got me a book on the history of wizard chess, as for Blaise and his brother—I suppose it's from both of them, after all Leonis signed the card—he isn't big on celebrations somehow, oh mom look, it's a set of tools for Potions!" 

The excitement of a twelve years old given a box of knives and other pointy things sure is something. Ophelia smiles, as not to disappoint her child. A talk will be in order in a couple of days about that gift and the rules it implies. 

Many rules. 

Sebastian is talking pictures of Hermione looking overjoyed and she gives in. 

Fine, only a couple of restrictions. But still. 

"I got something for an upperclassman but I forgot to ask for his address so I'll give it to him after break," Hermione concludes, parading across the room with her new gloves, eager to start reading—

"Your cousins will be there soon, you can put your presents in our bedroom so they won't touch them." 

"Thank you!" 

Once she's gone, presents held tightly in her arms, Ophelia buries her head against Sebastian' shoulder, relinquishing in her daughter's glee.

  
▲ ▲ ▲

The house is home to many; portraits whispering to each other, hoarding secrets which cannot go past the old stones and narrow hallways, or house-elves ensuring none of this ancient being doesn't crumble. More rarely, every Winter as the sun goes down too early, children, brothers in names and perhaps in hearts too. 

Treacherous stairs, wood creaking underneath confident feet which won't stop in fear of cracking their skull open, an array of books, misplaced from the library everywhere else. The greenhouse, magnificent, supporting the house's weight with its glass and metal. Hideout filled with death and life as one. 

Prudence cherishes each leaf, whispering affection, cleaning and watering, hands deep in soil when they should be. 

The children rarely wander inside the greenhouse. 

(Blaise, aware of his heritage, of the weight of one single drop of poison dropped in a teacup, prefers the gardens of their remaining properties. Sun licking the back of his neck as he explores, always pretending to be nonchalant and not in the mood for an adventure.

Prudence watches him twirl alongside bushes and paths, climbing on the benches to catch a glimpse of his surroundings. The way he returns a bit late, lips slightly parted and contentment in his eyes.

Leonis, who goes as far as he can, either inside or outside. Who, on some days, crawls his way in the deepest parts of the greenhouse, almost swallowed between vines, barely visible as she finds him curled up with a storm inside his eyes and rage underneath his fingernails. 

She mends his wounds, when he allows it. Some are scars already, and once free, he's gone again. Away in a world where house-elves have other names and portraits are enemies.)

She invites them nonetheless, after lunch. Tonight there'll be a party—a battlefield of exuberant smiles and rumors, as they would say—one they are not attending. Thus, she spends a couple of hours with them like this instead. 

The rain has been pouring against the greenhouse for a while, the sound drowning everything else, leaving them alone. 

Blaise, as kind as his father was—sole soul she had ever loved before him, before them—and as complicated as her, never fully content until he has pried apart people and opportunities, staring at them without being capable of putting them together, seeks her presence first. 

They should enjoy this activity together—Leonis' steps have already taken him away, and some nights, some days too, she wonders if he ever stepped inside her home four years ago or was it a dream she had? 

She kisses the top of Blaise's head, gently guiding his hands so the plant he is holding can be planted in new soil properly. In return, gloves still a bit big on his hands, he tells her about Hogwarts. He doesn't mind sharing, spilling details—three-headed dogs and secrets buried deep underneath the school, trolls left to wander and the ominous timing of a certain professor—and assuring her that he's doing well, that everything is under control. 

It's not. 

(Prudence relates, innocence somewhat lingering in a corner of her mind where it shouldn't lay—she has no blood on her hands, she was always careful to only dig them inside dirt, to find different methods to avoid an unwanted first marriage and then a third and a fourth, and it never stops, oh how she loved her second husband—wrapping around Blaise tenderly. 

Her attitude isn't pureblood enough, or too much. She coddles her boys—allowing them a freedom beyond the gates of the property, never judging, only observing. The distance grows, until they close it again. Akin to waves, they always return, and she only has hatred for politics and these dreadful games and she is never going to sell her damn children even if some say it'd be salvation. 

They are all she ever wanted—roots so deep they can't be pulled away, children who won't break, many would they say they already are shattered, you had an heir and you let him become ineligible only out of love, you have a broken ghost of a child gnawing at his own skin, arm scarred and mind so gloom— _oh, I love them, I love them so so much_.)

"Take care of your soul," she reminds him, as she watches how he crumbles a dead leaf between his fingers, watching the remains fall on the ground of the greenhouse, "put someone else on the front line, if you must ensure your survival."

"We're only children, mother, we'll be fine."

For now. 

"You are."

Blaise has rocks, each unique and beautiful, and tiny fossils lined up on the shelf above his desk, sometimes she adds one in his absence, only to see if he'll notice. 

"You misplaced this," gloves are off when he dugs into his pocket, retrieving a small round rock, pushing it inside her palm. 

She kisses his forehead—he always knows. 

  
  


Buried among plants so high they reach the roof of the greenhouse, brushing against it in a meaningless attempt to reach for the sky, is her second child. Leonis has moments where he's older—not wiser, only vacant eyes and nails reddened by fear—and others where he's still eleven and stuck in oversized sweaters because he refuses to wear anything else, and she folds her legs against the floor to enter the hideout made of vines and magic where he always finds a hint of calm. 

(Leonis is the child of cold, skin always one shade paler than it should be, hands and feet unpleasant to touch—she still presses kisses against the inside of his palm to convey affection, not minding the way life seems to escape his grasp too often—yet he loathes water.

He's the boy so fearful of baths he would scream until his voice got hoarse, only tolerating burning showers. When they go to Narbonne, he usually refuses to go down to Narbonne-Plage, which is basically a small town near the beach named after its neighbor, considered as an extension of it. And when he gives in, to please Blaise or her, he walks into the burning sand without ever approaching the water. 

She will know why, once he's ready.) 

Ignoring the dirt on her legs and the floor, she sits next to him, so he can lay slightly against her. Whereas Blaise spills his mind to Prudence, Leonis is a stubborn sort of silence. Sometimes dramatic, mood akin to a devastating storm. Mind locked in a permanent nightmare, with bits of consciousness. Or perhaps it's the opposite, she isn't certain. 

All that matters is how they are sitting in their corner and the rattling of nails against skin stops. He isn't crying—he should be, considering the amount of damage he causes at times—when he holds out his arm so she can use a quick healing spell. 

He snaps out of his reverie later, blinking as if nothing had happened outside of an unpleasant buzzing in a corner of his mind. 

"Mother, will you love me once—once things change? If they do."

"I will love you until the world ends, my silly child, my bright star."

He nods, lowering the sleeve on his scarred arm before leaning against her once more.

She means her words. 


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> New chapter! Only a few left for year one, I think. I can't believe I've already written 30k... Well thanks for being there, dear readers!

Surrounded by bookshelves—myths and truths mixed on paper, tucked away from prying eyes by being almost out of reach, librarian always watching, hushing children and making sure they don't unbury what could destroy them—they have created their haven at an old table, not quite as steady as they'd like. It winces underneath elbows and sighs so heavy they resonate around them. Ron doesn't mind being there as much as he cannot stand the lack of answers.

His eyes are starting to be exhausted from reading the same pages over and over.

"The Runespoor is the only other three-headed beast we've found in the bestiary—And it's a snake therefore the information is not even good. Because dogs and snakes have nothing in common."

He ignores the table's protests as he lays his forehead against wood, wishing that could be easier somehow. Even Hermione is a bit frazzled from the evenings they've spent locked there. 

Muffling a yawn with his sleeve—the usual gesture, alongside a head tilted to make the neck crack—Leonis pushes forward the first, and unique, answer they've unlocked. 

"Back to the Cerberus theory then."

"Cerberus, in mythology, is a guardian, which means the trap door leads to some sort of treasure," Hermione recites, although they have already talked about that days ago. It's just—they have obtained nothing else.

Outside of a meager information about a potential weakness to music. Which would be useful if they were to go past the creature. Which isn't even the case. First of all, when would they even do that? On the weekend? Oh, yes let me get changed and grab my wand so we can get mauled to death. 

"Careful Weasley, you're going to fuse with the table if you continue."

"Don't care," he mumbles, watching Pansy and her freshly painted nails. On one hand, that's not the place to do that, on another, they are stuck in a loop so better make a wise use of their time, "wasn't Longbottom supposed to come and help?" 

"One hour ago," Gabriel confirms. 

While Pansy has opted to paint her nails, he is doing their latest Potions essay, with difficulty considering the amount of crossed out sentences. Oh well, that's probably a draft. 

"Do you think he forgot?" 

"Are you looking for an excuse to go looking for him?" 

He lifts his head, wood pattern pressed against his cheek in red lines, shrugging at Blaise's question. 

"Mate I don't even know what my legs feel like, it's been too long since I've walked."

"Rather than complaining, Weasley, get up and fetch books for us." 

"Suddenly, I'm perfectly at ease on my chair."

"Thought so."

As Hermione massages the back of her neck, as sore as them, footsteps—a bit urgent, a bit unsteady—resonate close to them, until their hero in shining armor makes his grand arrival. Completely out of breath for some reason, nervous hands rubbing together as he looks for a chair before dragging it to the table. Madam Pince must have heard and they hope she won't come to check on them. 

"Sorry—I—" 

Once he's seated, nervously glancing behind him a couple of times, he leans forward, as to share a great secret with them. The group—some would claim to be friends, others behaving as if they were revolted by the concept—awaits for the revelation which can only be an improvement over what they have gathered yet. 

"I've talked with Hagrid—he invited me because I tripped on my way from the greenhouse and ended up covered in mud, he's really nice. A bit scary, although he truly is kind. I wouldn't say his cooking is edible though—" 

"Slow down, you talked with who?" Ron interrupts, rubbing at his temple with two fingers to chase the urge to take a nap right there. 

"The gamekeeper," Blaise supplies, earning a couple of 'oh' and 'that makes sense', "remember the man who guided us on the boats?" 

"Yes, him. Sorry, thought you knew. Where was I? Oh yes—I might have panicked, I cannot remember why, but I mentioned the dog—" 

After a general groan and Hermione hitting her head with the cover of her book in despair at the sheer incompetence of the Gryffindor, Neville is allowed to resume. 

"You won't believe what he told me!" 

"Is now really the time for a guessing game?" 

"It's his pet?" 

Gabriel is the only one capable of entertaining that kind of conversation while sounding genuinely interested in what Longbottom is saying. How he manages that, Ron has no idea. 

"Yes, ten points to—Dursley. I was about to say Slytherin, but you're all Slytherins so... What I'm saying is that the dog is called Fluffy and he's guarding a Philosopher' stone."

"A what?" 

"Oh—I didn't go that far. I thought maybe you would know?" 

While Pansy attempts to distract Hermione from glaring daggers at Longbottom—grabbing her hand and suggesting that she paints her nails, out of boredom and not because they are friends, how dare you think otherwise, Granger?—Leonis props his chin on his hand. 

"We are well-versed in ancient artifacts, obviously, it's not as if we were eleven," he replies flatly. 

The Gryffindor flinches at the callout, probably having anticipated they would do the hard part for him. What's even a Philosopher' stone? There is a hushed argument about the starting point, wasting half of an hour deciphering the name in itself. A stone sounds like something you either create or find. Philosopher, they eventually agree on, is a term suggesting it holds a great power—that the object necessitated research and focus.

They're once again at the bottom, ready to crawl their way up, books returned, exchanged for others. His legs are aching, as he lets fingers glide against various covers, picking what sounds enticing. They are focusing on artifacts found over the past centuries across the country, and alchemy. Both subjects are heavy and too much for only one evening.

As they approach the end of the day, sun long done already, Ron watches the bright nails of Pansy and Hermione, losing his focus—his brain is mushy, barely functioning as he craves rest and his bed. 

"Well, Weasley, if you wanted me to do yours, you should have asked?" 

"Hm?" He blinks, stretching his fingers one after another, "oh yeah, wouldn't mind?" 

Taken aback, definitely forgetting he has a younger sister—and Bill, with his nails painted in deep black and gold when he has enough time, Bill who ruffled his hair and decorated Ron's too, when he was young and full of wonders, been a while since they've done that—Pansy eventually gestures for his hand, grabbing a vibrant blue and then adding a coat of silver glitter on top of it. A bit overkill, although she seems really into that present. They all know it's from Hermione, and as he watches his nails shimmering under the dim light, he's glad she thought of that. 

Longbottom excuses himself as soon as they are told to vacate the place, not bothering to ask about their next meeting. Either he understands that they'll be at the same spot after class, or he isn't that keen on solving the mystery. 

At dinner, following his example, Blaise and Gabriel let Pansy work on their nails, painting them with soft purple and vivid green respectively. As for Leonis—he basically asks for 'black, thank you' without allowing anything else. If they hear snickers, or disbelief from the rest of the table, they ignore it as easily as usual. Ron is past the point of caring, especially when he gets to share something special with his friends. 

Who cares if it's nail polish? 

And three-headed dogs and stupid stones. 

  
▲ ▲ ▲

Leaving the common room at night, akin to a hero on some sort of quest, or the villain ready to unleash his devious plan, is surely not his wisest decision. There has been an ache though, causing ripples as he holds the gift he got without more than a note, silk so soft between his hands. 

Gabriel steps outside, having already made excuses in a corner of his mind to justify being caught—nightmares and then getting lost on his way to the infirmary, childish yet understandable—shoes absent and replaced only with socks, to avoid causing noise, he starts a stroll he hopes short. He only wishes to—surrender to the castle, to allow his mind to be led astray only for a moment. He needs that, without being sure of why. 

He has only taken one turn—wrong or right depending on who you're asking—the cape still unfolded in his hands, when freezing fingers press against the back of his neck, causing him to jump in fright. Good thing he went to the bathroom before heading out, honestly. 

Rather than a ghost, or another creature from a different time, the person who steps in front of him, shit-eating grin on his lips, is only Leonis. 

"Fancying a walk at such hour? Wicked."

He had not planned on having a guest. Leonis is alright, except when he's not—moods somber and difficult to swallow when he turns rude and unrepentant. 

The other boy lowers his gaze towards what he's holding, curious in a way which makes Gabriel protective. That's a gift from—he fidgets with the cloth for a moment, eventually wrapping it around his shoulders to show what it does. 

"An invisibility cloak?" 

That's where Gabriel can only lie. He has no way, no alibi to justify why he refuses to disclose his birth identity outside of a distaste for dead bodies. Nevertheless, the cape belonged to his first father and having it is—it's special. His parents were, to say the least, appealed at the way he pranked them alongside Dudley with it during break. They did not confiscate it, although his mother bore that look which clearly means that, as soon as he causes things to spiral out of control, the cloak will remain at home. He'd rather keep that memento of another time with him. And to use it for important tasks—and a bit of mischief, perhaps. 

"I got it for Christmas." 

How do you say you have two families, and that's an heirloom passed down from one person to another, when you pretended to only have one squib and a muggle as relatives? Gabriel hesitates, before walking closer so he can throw it over both of their heads.

"I'm taking it out for a test run, nothing worthy of losing points, and I didn't tell the others because we wouldn't fit all together—" 

"Fair point. So, where are we going?" 

"Not to see 'Fluffy', I hope." 

The giant three-headed dog is a reality they avoid, as they still are unsure of what to make of it. They have started to figure out the stone's purpose, thanks to evenings at the library—immortality, what a weird notion, reminding him of people who died and only got to hold him for a couple of months, the tragedy of a war he has no desire to dwell on—and who his creator is. Still, why leave such treasure at Hogwarts? Is it a test to tempt students, or merely something professors thought to be clever when it's only a danger to everyone. 

They haven't shared the news with Longbottom, or Neville as he asked to be called between two short visits to the library—Gabriel would appreciate for him to be more invested, while getting why the Gryffindor would rather stay a simple spectator. They will, eventually. Right now, as the stairs decide their destination for them, two children underneath a magical cloak, all Gabriel can think of is how vast Hogwarts is. 

During the day, packed with students, the hallways give a different impression—as if they were walking in a museum at night, portraits asleep, statues unmoving, no guide giving directions or lost child bawling for their parents.

He has a flashback of being seven, alone in a closing store, wandering between cans of soup while the floor was sticky due to one having fallen down earlier—the memory of his foot making a suction sound is so vivid he can still hear it—and then, brutal hands pressing against his shoulders, his face and back. Words of 'Oh my God, Gabriel are you alright? I thought you were in the car,' and he expected the foreign feeling in Vernon's voice to turn into scorn, swallowing him whole. Instead, his father picked him up, carrying his body to the car while apologizing—security guard offering a candy bar as an apology for not noticing. He munched on it on the way home, sharing with Dudley to avoid screams. Come to think of it, that was certainly the day where he understood his parents cared. 

He isn't certain of how they end up on the fourth floor, nor why Leonis suddenly leaves the protection of the cape to walk on his own—all he knows is that they hear a meow, a faint sound from afar, yet it sends both of them on autopilot, seeking refuge in a nearby room.

Disused classroom, dust invading the air and causing Gabriel to repress a sneeze. He wouldn't have feared getting caught, had the other not been an idiot. As he opens his mouth, feeling like Leonis is above being called out or caught or all of this stuff which only belongs to mortals, he spots the large figure behind his friend. Cape folded inside his pocket, he tugs on the white sheet covering the object. 

More dust into the air, fantastic. Good he doesn't have an allergy. 

Oh, a mirror.

A tall one, words engraved at the top—another buried treasure not belonging inside a school for sure. Gabriel wants to say something, when he catches his reflection. In itself, there is nothing odd about that part.

Where it turns odd, is when he sees his parents standing around him, and Dudley too. That can't be real—he can almost feel his mother's embrace around his shoulders though, and the way Dudley is ruffling his hair. And on the side, clapping and waving, are—

Oh. 

_Oh_. 

He feels like someone shoved a bezoar down his throat. James and Lily Potter, in muggle clothes, smiling at him. Or rather, the 'him' on the other side of the mirror. They are dead, he knows that much, while he hasn't been told details, he has heard enough—they are in front of him though, Petunia brightly embracing her sister and inviting her closer, Vernon and James joking about something he doesn't hear. 

Gabriel wants—a camera, anything to capture the moment forever. To stay all night long and—

"No, no, no—" 

Reality returns, reflection disappointed when he turns around. He wants to ask 'don't you see me with my family?', until he realizes that the vision is quite different from Leonis'. Or else he wouldn't have fallen to his knees, palms pressed against the glass with a longing Gabriel has never seen from anyone. 

He stares, mouth agape, fingers numb from the cold of February. He has half the mind to grab the white sheet on the floor and throw it back over the mirror, until he realizes it's too high—he isn't certain he wants to vanquish this perfect future, or mere dream. 

The latter—Gabriel is the child who grew in a cupboard for a couple of years, who was surrounded, infected from the inside by dark magic, he should be capable of recognizing it, he's also not even twelve, limbs a bit unsteady, glasses sliding off his face from time. He crouches next to Gabriel, appealed when he notices how he is trying to dig his nails into the glass, the deep red coating them. On an impulse, he grabs the other, who kicks and shouts, a litany of 'no, not you, not you!' which makes no sense at all. 

He drags him so Leonis isn't facing that bloody—in every sense of the term now—mirror, eyes wide and sweat forming against his forehead. Gabriel holds his arms for a moment, one which lasts for too long, and he is surprised no adult is bursting in, wand in hand, wondering who caused such commotion. 

Swallowing harshly, Leonis pushes him aside to drag his knees underneath his chin, fingers tangled in black curls. 'Not real, not you,' he whispers, and Gabriel gazes at the mirror, perfect life on display, all for him. Getting up, he grabs his hand—he's trembling, he wants to stay, to stare forever, forgetting about food or water or sleep or dead bodies long rotten underneath the earth. 

"Wingardium Leviosa."

The white sheet covers the mirror once more, and he's crying a bit at what-ifs—that's when he gets what his mother meant by this world wanting to trap him in. How not to be lured into magic when it's so tempting and warmth, and painful—he sits back down. 

He's eleven, and that's awfully young to pry bloody fingers out of his friend's hair so he doesn't hurt himself. 

Gabriel doesn't bear and grits his teeth, instead he rubs his thumbs against cold palms until pupils are sort of focused again, bile gone back where it belongs. Leonis is unwell, he can tell that much. Why, though, that's another thing. 

He is—was—Harry Potter, and he cannot say it, doesn't find the words for it. Thus, whatever is plaguing Leonis can remain his. He doesn't know if it's healthy or right. He doesn't care, focusing on calming the other until Leonis finally acknowledges his presence. 

What did you see, neither of them asks. They are eleven, and young, and absolutely stupid—there is a hole in one of his socks and his foot is freezing—and Gabriel suggests a hug, just because he can, because why the heck not. Leonis stares at him as if he had grown mad, before the corner of his lips twitches. 

It's not a pleasant expression. 

Familiar though, yes. 

He licks the blood off his fingernails, to Gabriel's resigned horror, and shrugs as to say that's fine. 

The moment ends right there. 

They walk back to their common room in silence, slow steps underneath the cape, Gabriel holding his hand—what else is he meant to do. At least Leonis isn't pulling away or running back into that room, clawing at the mirror which holds something terrible. 

After that, Gabriel decides the invisibility cape is solemnly for emergencies, tucking it at the bottom of his trunk and pretending it's not there. 

  
  


Dumbledore corners him before breakfast the following morning, inquiring why he hasn't come to him since his first visit, and that—with a hand on his shoulder, contact unwanted—he's always welcome if something is troubling him. Once again, Gabriel nods and walks to his table, and his friends. 

"Pansy, can you paint my nails green and silver today?" 

"Keen on showing house pride, Dursley?" 

"Only trying to prove a point."

Leonis' fingers are bandaged and he's slumped over his porridge, but when he sees Gabriel, he offers him a nod. 

"The stone can also be used to change metal into pure gold," Hermione offers before even saluting them, sitting next to Leonis' and stealing a slice of bread from Blaise, right before slamming a book on the table, "which is way greater than immortality on the short run."

Gabriel wishes to explain it's a tad early for that conversation, although he cannot say that, nor run away since Pansy is barely done with the protective polish she has to put on before the rest, for reasons he isn't interested in—as long as it ruins the headmaster's day, it's good enough. 

"She calls that light reading, you know?" Pansy gestures towards the heavy book between the Zabini brothers, and Gabriel can sense Hermione kept the candles lit for a bit too long last night, "the audacity."

"So, someone wants it because it's a useful thing, that's all? Do you think it's a person in particular or? General protection, I guess?" 

Ron seems bummed by the simplicity of the whole thing, and it's obvious that none of them is interested in immortality or being rich—come to think of it, most of them already are—which causes Gabriel to wonder about what he'd do with it. Ah, Lily and James cannot be brought back, thus what's the point? He could use it for himself, and for what? See more people die around him? 

The thought leaves him nauseous as he gulps on orange juice to cleanse his mind.

Twirling his spoon in porridge, Leonis appears to be thinking something similar.

"Living forever sounds like an absolute nightmare to me—your thoughts would run out of space, or overflow, or—urg." 

It's funny, because Leonis says it like he was talking from experience. 

"Aren't we going to be late to History of Magic?" 

A chorus of voices overlap each other as Blaise waits for them to rush back to their rooms to grab their bags. Gabriel, who has long given up on taking notes in that class, preferring to work from the textbook directly waits with him in the hallway. 

"Would you happen to have a clue about why my brother is injured?" 

The question comes out of nowhere, causing Gabriel's mouth to be suddenly quite dry. 

"I heard you walking into our room in the middle of the night, you're not exactly subtle you know?" 

"We went for a stroll in the castle, and he—had a bad moment?" 

Foolishly, Gabriel doesn't want to share the mirror with others. He has seen Leonis' reaction, and doesn't want a repetition of that either. That would be too much to handle. Luckily, the answer is satisfactory to Blaise, who crosses his arms, leaning against the wall.

"That tends to happen. And don't worry about not inviting me, knowing Leo, he probably followed you without your permission."

"You know him well."

"What can I say, we're brothers."

Gabriel isn't certain of what Blaise knows of Leonis' weird mood changes and harsh reaction, although he isn't sure he wants to ask. 

Sometimes, he thinks they are all—a bit unhinged in their little group. Not quite like a curse. Merely something which has always been there. 


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is Neville and you're watching Jackass—lion boy wants friends and to do something good for once. He messes up.  
> Slytherin to the rescue. Oh wait they mess up too.  
> Really, why is this damn school so dangerous?
> 
> (Regulus/Leonis is quite messed up by past drowning trauma in this chapter, ft some descriptions of Inferi removing flesh and such.)

Rumors are easy to spread—they fade on their own if not cared for though, akin to dried petals, rotten flowers in vases too small for them. Pansy considers herself excellent at a myriad of things, including gossiping, out of spite mostly. Jealous of her sisters, of things she has never asked for thrown on her shoulders causing this sensation of losing her footing each time she is back home. Youngest and not so precious anymore, nothing left for her outside of snarls and fake smiles. 

There are limits though, to what you should say in the open. Hence the way she grabs Longbottom by the collar of his wrinkled robes—pureblood only in name, certainly not in appearance—dragging him away from the Great Hall.

"Professor Snape isn't after the stone, what are you babbling about?"

"I—he was injured earlier this month, he limped and that's the kind of thing you would get from getting bitten by a giant dog! It all makes sense, we have to tell Dumbledore and—"

Good thing the rest of the freak show isn't here yet. And, for once that she wakes up early, she has to be the one to manage that pitiful meltdown. She wants to shake Longbottom, to remind him that Snape is as loyal as any teacher—that might not be true, it's notorious he loathes teaching, harsh towards three houses and barely accepting of his own—why doesn't the kid understand? Perhaps from the constant taunting, only kept to acceptable levels due to Zabini serving as his partner during class. 

"Go on," she replies dryly, "walk to your precious headmaster, confess your paranoid delusions and watch him tell you that Snape would never do such thing."

What bothers her the most isn't the lack of trust in the slightest. The head of Slytherin was injured and she did not notice? Eyes narrowed in concentration, she attempts to pull back the past weeks inside her mind, prying at morose days for details.

Fingers release the trembling boy, still as clumsy as either. She could spread horrors about him, if she had such desire. Tales of parents left lost forever in a room too bright between plastic curtains, the smell of chemicals and the kindness of healers for sole company. Ah, that would even make her feel bad.

"He wouldn't," she repeats, Slytherin pride washing over her. She could push and snarl, leaving Longbottom crying on the floor—and for what? Didn't they—together, as some unstable unit—promised protection? 

"Who else would try to get it?" 

They have told him, whispers between classes, nothing big, details omitted. His fault for not coming to the library any longer, as if he was fearful of them lurking in the shadows, book covers obscured by the dim light of the evenings.

"How would I know?" She walks past him, fed up with the one-sided conversations they'll always have. He might go wail to her companions, but she doubts it. Dursley is the only one who would genuinely listen, without judgment or complains anyway. 

While going through the large doors, she glances back at the lonely boy standing there, alone. Well, that's on him, she reminds herself sternly. 

The eerie silence of the early Great Hall, students still not quite awake, leaves her feeling lost, and awfully small for a moment. An insignificant individual in the midst of a raging storm. She hurries to her table, grabbing whatever it's the closest and throwing it on her place.

Snape—she decides while taking a bite of her sausage—isn't a fool. He's the kind of man who would plan properly, and not get bitten by a three-headed beast. Assuming otherwise is a proof of stupidity. Which reminds her of the essay she has yet to complete, due before the end of the week. 

Somehow, she doesn't find school work as dull as it was at home. Outside of History of Magic, which deserves an alive teacher—the standards of this school as going downhill, Malfoy is right about that. 

"Morning, you look terrible."

"Thank you, Zabini, I return the compliment to you," she allows Blaise to sit next to her anyway, relating her encounter with Longbottom without much care.

"Truly, he should know better."

"Guess that picturing our house as some evil plot point is more convenient. Why does he even hang with us?"

"We offered our assistance in exchange for his cooperation."

"We shouldn't have," she almost stabs Blaise with her fork when he steals the second sausage off her plate like some ruffian—before deciding that would be messed up, "I don't like him."

"You don't like anybody, Parkinson."

"True, I tolerate people, and that's already enough."

Blaise offers her a pleasant smile, perfectly aware of how close she is to Granger and to, well, all of them. 

She talks without manners around them— bumping shoulders in hallways, hands grabbed so she can paint them, knife brandished at dinner, pointing at the bearer of an annoying joke, sometimes snickers so loud they turn into laughter—an array of details she sees, from Weasley's freckles, tracing patterns on his skin, to Dursley's dimples when he's laughing, or Blaise's eyes sparkling when he receives news from home. Ah, she is sort of at ease, among these idiots.

How terrible.

  
▲ ▲ ▲

The first attempt at an intervention having turned sour, Neville retreats for a while. Friendship isn't meant to be difficult—his parents were quite loved at his age, and surrounded by friends, whereas all he has is the voice in his mind supposed to be his consciousness and who sounds more and more like his grandmother's—although he isn't meant to befriend Slytherins either. 

From a pureblood standpoint, there are advantages. As the son of a couple tortured by Death Eaters, he'd rather disregard that possibility. Zabini accepted his handshake though, he even promised to protect him from their surroundings, and he—he feels indebted to the other boy, nothing akin to friendship at all. 

He recalls his last conversation with Hagrid, companion in these tiring times, always having a kettle of burning tea ready for his visits, joyful teller of tales supposed to be secret. He was somber though, when they talked, large hands folded above a plate of biscuits that Neville knows to avoid by now. 

"I'mma tell you, N'ville... Drin'ing unicorn's blood? A terrible thing, absolutely terrible, I reckon no good wizard would do that."

Omens are not unfamiliar to Neville; he has heard tales of grims and other nonsense, as his grandmother calls them, from distant uncles and aunts more than once. Usually following a fall or another accident. He's simply a bit clumsy, with a tendency to stand up for the wrong battles, nothing cursed about that at all. He wouldn't claim to love his family unconditionally, while not knowing what else the world would have given him if not for that grandmother who took him in as a small child. 

"What is it used for?" He asked, hands folded around his tea cup, sipping politely.

"Dark things, like keeping a wizard alive when they're on the verge of death—wrong stuff, going against natural order."

"Does it heal?" 

"No, no, it curses you—terrible life. You' stuck in limbo, not really dead, not really alive—cursed like I said."

"Oh, that's unfortunate," Neville replied abandoning the idea which barely got to appear in a corner of his mind; wouldn't save his parents at all. Another dead end. 

Ah, he has never been looking for a solution, per se. That's an hopeless reality he cannot fight, that's all. He gets these bouts of hope sometimes, suffocating and extremely quick to vanish.

Conversation finished, he returned to the castle, body heavy due to a long day. Which led him directly into bed, soft pajamas and comfortable blankets over him. Neville learned early during the year that it was better to fall into deep sleep before his roommates decided to cause a ruckus while playing explosive snap or any similar game. He wouldn't say that they dislike his presence, it's more as if he wasn't truly a part of any of this, watching from the sidelines. 

The feeling is similar with the Slytherins. They have formed an unbreakable bond within months, letting no one close. As Zabini told him when they made a pact, it's an alliance not friendship. That's unfair—he will never achieve anything at all, lacking the talent of his parents, the way his mother carried herself through the castle, as elegant as a dancer, whereas his body is at best uncooperative and at worst a disaster. 

Neville would enjoy having friends. Classmates who wouldn't put their books on the bench when he comes near so he's forced to go elsewhere, meals shared rather than eaten as fast as possible so he can retreat back into the tower. It's not that Gryffindor isn't welcoming—the Weasley twins often invite him to play cards with them when he's in the common room, he simply refuses to join in fear of making a fool of himself, it's him who doesn't fit. 

Neville tugs the blankets above his head, rolling on his side to forget about his miserable school life. 

He won't tell them about his latest discovery and the way it fits into 'the Snape wants the stone' narrative. In fact, he isn't certain of how it would make sense right now. That'll do, eventually. 

  
▲ ▲ ▲

Unsettling news fall upon a quaint evening one after another; first a seventh year on the verge of getting suspended for hexing a Hufflepuff—details absent, although witnesses suggest that the Slytherin attacked unprovoked, brandishing his wand out of misplaced anger after a bad class—then the sudden absence of Dumbledore due to urgent matters, and thus all life of death questions must be be redirected to the head of Gryffindor until his return. It's uncommon, for Snape, to announce something which shouldn't be public to students in the first place. After all, who goes to see the headmaster for anything? 

Without bothering to enlighten them with anything else, outside of a brief warning to prefects, the head of their house is already back to his duties in the dungeons. 

Considering the oddities happening over the past months—the forbidden corridor they were warned about, instead of simply being blocked to students via magic, or the mirror which almost caused something unpleasant—Leonis wonders why nobody in this bloody school has any idea how dangerous their education is starting to be. 

Or, more accurately, why don't they care about it? Leaving the corridor open, allowing the stairs to misplace Longbottom straight into it during a night walk, or not putting any ward to shield the mirror from prying eyes—that's akin to tricking children into throwing themselves into danger. A possibility which aggravates Leonis as much as he doesn't want to figure out the grand scheme of things. 

That would be another headache he doesn't need so late in the year. He shudders at the wetness underneath his sleeve, bandages remade earlier during the day and yet halfway undone because he keeps on pressing on them just to see what will happen—blood, that's what happens, you terrible child. As usual. 

They should wait for the storm to pass; pressing matters echo behind his eyelids although it's all blurry and nonsensical—memories overlapping what happened in another life and this one—he has no idea what his stubborn mind wants right now, thus it'll have to wait. Anyway, why would he get involved in any of this? If anything, the temptation given to the students is more of a warning—if they give in, something terrible will happen. 

Or so he guesses. 

Then why being borderline on neglect with their safety—oh the troll, he has forgotten about that. Pushing against the cushions on which he was leaning, Leonis decides to head to his room rather than remaining surrounded by the voices of his fellow snakes.

  
  


Hours later, as sleep refuses to come, and he's convinced he's going to remain awake until dawn, he hears pressing footsteps in front of his door. Sitting up, mouth dry, and arms aching from having been crossed behind his head for too long, he wonders what's happening this time around. At best, Durlsey or someone else tried to walk to the kitchens for a late snack, getting caught. That happens, he doesn't care. 

Still—burying his face against his palms with a long groan, definitely on the dramatic side, Leonis wonders how likely his awful night is going to worsen over the next minutes, common sense thrown out of the window. 

"Y'okay?" 

Weasley barely articulates, drowsy and obviously confused. Was he loud enough to wake him up? Well, truly, a marvelous night. 

Seconds later, the door is slammed open, causing Weasley to throw a pillow straight at the demon bothering them—turns out Dursley isn't great at dodging past ten pm, good to know. As the pillow falls off his face, their unwanted guest, also in his pajamas, glare at both of them, one after another. 

"Thank you, really. You'd never believe what I just saw, or rather who—" 

An alarm blares in the corner of Leonis' mind, one screaming 'please, don't be Longbottom, I refuse to acquire that responsibility', and, of course, just because life hates him this time around too, Dursley says exactly that. 

"Neville, in his robes and heading towards the stairs."

"What," Weasley takes a moment to wake up properly before continuing, "I mean how did the two of you cross paths?" 

"I had forgotten my textbook in the Great Hall, which doesn't matter—" 

"Your Charms textbook? Again?" 

"Are you listening, Ron? Neville is going to be an idiot."

That boy is, and will never be, their problem, he wants to add, although he cannot. Whoever wants the stone might finally—oh. A student going through trials in place of them, how convenient. Mouth filled with venom, Leonis pushes the covers away, lighting the room up and grabbing clothes which aren't pajamas. 

"You're going to help?" 

"No, Dursley, I'm dressing up for a ball—" 

The sour expression on Dursley's face might be directed at him, not that he cares. 

Understanding there is no way out of this one, Ron starts changing too, and they notice that Dursley is gone, probably to wake up the others. While they do not have magical stairs, like Gryffindors, to stop boys from invading the other hallway, he is fairly certain Dursley won't take more than five steps before being thrown back. Except if Granger is still up in the common room. Weasley's voice is laced with sleep as he mumbles about none of this being fair or making sense and why would someone try to go after some stupid stone. 

A shared sentiment, truly. 

Granger must have been up—restless limbs, mind filled with contradictions she had to ponder over to allow herself to climb in bed, he relates a bit too much—as Parkinson and her are standing, alongside his brother, in front of the entrance. Aren't prefects supposed to keep an eye on them? 

Mentally adding child endangerment to the long list of what's wrong with that school, Leonis strides forward, rubbing his wrist with nails cut too short.

"Before we even take a step outside, what's the general consensus?" 

Outside of Granger and Dursley, the others do not appear quite awake enough for a semblance of plan. Unfortunate, as they might run out of time without one, or die if they rush head first into what feels akin to a giant joke.

Lifting her hand, a habit not yet lost on her, Granger steps forward. 

"We must stop Neville from getting himself killed—outside of a mishap on his part, he must have passed the Cerberus without problem, since he's aware he simply needs music to do so—however, we ignore what's under the trapdoor, and even worse, the person after the stone might use it for an easy access. Unless Neville is the one who wants it, luring us in a sense of false security to get information," she pauses, brows furrowed in concentration, "that appears highly unlikely though. Anybody else? Yes, Ron?" 

"We have never figured out who is after that damn stone in the first place, guys. Could be a student, or even a teacher." 

"You have a point. We'd be no match for an adult, even all together—thus we'll have to thread with extreme caution."

Leonis has no clue what she means by that, caution is an odd word against his molars—he wants to bite everything down. 

Together, they form a group too big to be lurking in the school at night, and they could get caught easily. Unless—glancing at Dursley, he mimics putting a cape around his shoulders, watching him nod in return. 

"It's in my pocket, in case of an emergency." 

"I'd say the situation is already one, honestly," Weasley adds, rubbing the back of his neck, "should one of us stay behind to get Snape—I mean, we're fairly sure it's not him."

"I'll do it." 

"Really?" 

Parkinson replies with a shrug.

"None of you is awake enough to remember you might get killed or expelled, so if I can ensure that doesn't happen by fetching Snape, why not? How many of us can fit under your cape anyway, Durlsey?" 

"I'd say three—four if we squeeze together—I'm not sure it'd be possible to walk properly though." 

"Then, that would be a mistake to go, I stand on my position."

"I'm staying back too," Weasley announces, taking them aback, "no use in getting caught before even reaching the third floor, the four of you go and we're getting Snape in the meantime."

As nobody else volunteers to remain behind, Blaise staring at Leonis with all his might, Dursley unfolds the cape, 'just in case' they would need it on the way.

This is going to be an utter disaster, Leonis is aware. 

  
  


Up they go, odd formation threading through empty hallways. Seriously, why is no one patrolling when it's important? Not that Leonis cares about whatever happens to this damned school—can't let a kid get killed because he thought he had no one to go to though. Not that he believes it's his fault—Longbottom should trust himself more usually, tonight would have been better for him to remain in the tower, too scared to head out. 

Huddled together, they stop breathing at the sign of the giant dog blissfully asleep, snoring a bit by the way. One less problem in the way. The trapdoor is still wide open, no one having bothered to close it. 

Obviously, whoever is in charge of this monstrosity—not the dog, mind you, merely this foolish plan of hiding an invaluable artifact in a school—has planned more problems for them, which is fine. They aren't given an option for anything else, Leonis snarls, anger burning through his veins as he goes in first. 

  
  


Outside of a relatively peaceful encounter with tentacles wrapping around his throat, all is well. He jerks his head back to glare at the others, all in one piece thanks to Granger's quick thinking. Her efficient 'Lumos' did wonders considering the situation. Massaging where the Devil' Snare tried to strangle him—cold and so humid, the air heavy against his clothes, lack of visibility causing a short-lived panic, not a lake, not the end of the world—not bothering to be grateful out loud. Honestly, he doesn't quite trust his voice right now. 

  
  
In another world, deceitful adults would have crafted a masterpiece for them to cross, each trial trickier than the previous one—that would have required to care for kids draped in silver and green, for a bunch of ambitious seekers of knowledge who weren't on board with dying, and who are still there anyway because they are aware no adult will be.

In this universe, however, what has been created is a bit different, with no affinity for whatever they are talented at. And they stand, already a bit unsteady, fingers trembling from apprehension, in front of a gallery of mirrors. Two lines of tall reflections, a door visible far away. At first glance, the narrow hallway is more of a bridge, mirrors floating on each side—there is no path though, only black fumes coming from the bottom which might either be closer than it looks or extremely far, considering that Lumos doesn't light the room more than it already is.

The puzzle is not apparent right away, until Blaise—the curious one, who would have thrived at chess just like Weasley—presses a foot between the first two mirrors. The lack of platform, or support, is suddenly quite evident. 

Annoyed, Leonis grabs the back of his sweater, before staring at the abomination they have to solve. The door, a bit far to be properly assessed, appears to be made out of a shimmering material, appearing almost translucent. 

"Are we sure that Longbottom managed to go through that?" 

"Considering he's excellent at Herbology, he wouldn't have struggled up to that point at least," Dursley immediately replies to Blaise's question. 

"Perhaps he fell down?"

"Can we focus? We obviously need something to—make the mirrors move? Or are we meant to create a pathway?" 

Granger has, as usual, fantastic questions. A shame she provides absolutely no answer to either of them. Both make sense, although—

"If the mirrors were meant to be stepped on, we would see footprints, but they look clean." 

After agreeing with Dursley, they spend, or rather waste precious time, observing the room, stuck on the little platform on their side. 

The answer comes from an accident—they would have figured out anyway, although it might have been longer—when Blaise's wand, Lumos leaving their eyes tired, touches the closest mirror, illuminating it for exactly ten seconds. Leonis knows because he is counting. 

Once the excitement is there, jolting them awake, they understand that the key is to light all the mirrors up at once. How is another matter.

"We could create a light and make it bounce from one mirror to another? No wait—too complicated. An extremely bright Lumos? While it doesn't work on the ground, it should be fine for the mirrors."

"Good luck creating a spell that impressive by yourself," Leonis is not here to rain on his brother's parade—well, he might be. Just because he can painfully see which sort of variation of Lumos would work. They have not yet studied them up to that point, that's the problem. "Let's cast it at once, together, that should be sufficient." 

Draining their magical core for a mere—he wishes for nothing more than five minutes with the person who created this stupid thing, _to shove his wand down their throat_ —scheme, that wouldn't be wise.

Wands grouped together, although without contact to avoid different materials clashing, they shout as one, light engulfing the mirrors akin to a blaze without an escape. 

That's enough, in spite of the strain on their eyes, to cause the fumes to dissipate, a path made out of dark bricks appearing in front of them. They run, returning journey far away in their minds. 

  
  


The problem with running blindly forward, is that you forget to look on the sides, to take into accounts the little things. Such as what can be hidden under a school; out of breath, they stare at the cave, craved an eternity ago without a doubt. It's an unwelcome sight, and Leonis is somewhat grateful they are focused on 'how is it possible' and not on the fact he has curled against a rough wall, humid and awfully cold. 

A cave; a narrow tunnel underneath a building, probably at the worst place possible. Their eyesight, already exhausted from the journey, brightness and darkness alternating without reprieve, struggle to distinguish what's awaiting them. The tunnel isn't long, leading them into an immense room which has been carved too fast, uneven ceiling, rocks piled at the back, as if it had crumbled on itself. 

Torches dance against the walls, many extinguished by time, magic long gone from their flames. The dampness in the air starts making sense as they notice the sound of something dripping, treacherous ground uneven under their feet.

They soon reach water, surrounding an elevated area in the middle, some sort of tiny island—that's another mirror, a familiar one, and all Leonis see is the water, deep and so clear in spite of the low visibility, water and hands coming out to drag him under—

His fingers dug into his clothes as he hugs himself tight, refusing to even approach that devious trap. His back slides against the rough wall—no way, they shouldn't step into that, or else what will be left of them outside of bones? His voice fails him, terror having overthrown his mind, leaving a battlefield made of scars and memories which aren't always his—

"Leonis!" 

Their voices have followed him into this forced rebirth—tempting to abandon himself to them, to let this nightmare be over with. 

"He has a debilitating phobia of water—" 

Wait. Blinking, as blood isn't flooding out, nails gone and hands shredded apart—he isn't any of that, and he doesn't understand why. Until he feels hands over his, pressing with all their strength. He wants to throw up—to rip his insides out, so the job is easier for them, his throat is so parched and he should dive his head straight unto the water, screaming without any answer or a sound.

Instead, his pupils recognize a person, and voices—screams, away, and unrecognizable—Gabriel Dursley in front of him, crouched between his legs. He stares, licking his lips without finding any words, while the horror seems to beckon him closer. 

"Leo—Leo!" 

Isn't it a bit early for nicknames? Terrified, he manages to nod, just so Dursley will let go. Something else is happening—or has been, he can't tell one cave from another, they are one big horror to him. 

"It's Quirrell." 

His first instinct is to mumble a weak 'what', because he cannot even remember who Quirrell is—oh _Defence teacher_ , yeah. 

Wait, that's—Leonis, a lifetime after the others, battle missed, finally sees. The mirror is still standing, in spite of cracks running through the glass, and all is left in front of it is a sobbing professor—voices still mixed up as one horrid thing. There is Neville, right there, spreaded in a corner, one leg in the water. Why aren't they coming for him—their _name_ tastes stale against his tongue, and Leonis refuses to say it. 

Wouldn't it be convenient to face the raging fear once for all, to push on his knees and save his friends—his brother and Granger are down too, on their side of the cave. They didn't even have time to cross, Quirrel got them first—he hears Dursley whispering they are only stunned, that's okay, and nothing is. He clings to the boy, the boy one looks like one he loathed—

Can't the memories be gone, once for all? 

Why does he have to swallow down all this water when he's already drowning in himself? He can't cross, can't save anyone. Gabriel, that fool, absolute disaster of a friend, tries to make him relent—he wants to try, when he's only going to fall too, then it'll be only _Re_ —Leonis and that damn water he can't go through.

"No, no, no—" 

"I have to try, let me." 

"You absolute—fool!" 

His hands are losing ground, he isn't in the right state of mind, unable to make a coherent decision. Gabriel, the _hell_ with last names right now, thinking this is a challenge, will get himself slaughtered before he can even reach their homicidal professor. Is it him, then, who unleashed the troll? To cause a distraction—his fingers let go, without meaning to, and in a blur, Gabriel is into the water.

Not as deep as anticipated—a trick, as water is always sinking toward the center of the world, dragging everything along—as Gabriel is able to walk rather than swimming. And, hands clenched around the cuff of his pants, he watches him without doing anything. 

The speech, the grand reveal of who was the mastermind all this long, it all feels lost on him. He hears without registering much— _Harry Potter, Voldemort_ —ah, Him. He wants to come closer, if only a bit, to say 'hey, do you remember, I was eighteen and I died to stop you, which was, by the way, for naught apparently'. _Wouldn't it be fucked up?_

The water is creeping closer, he can feel it, making himself smaller against the wall, certain that soon they'll come out to finish what was already done years ago. Afar, while there the protection is different, a connection long gone between two individuals, Voldemort, ignoring his host on the verge of death, makes one last attempt. 

And everything is so bright, lake and people alike, that he cannot keep his eyes open any longer. The last thing his mind can come up with, as the smell of something burning invades his body is that he'd rather drown again. 

At least, he would know the ending. 

And then, nothing.

  
▲ ▲ ▲

Urgent steps and finally, an adult stepping in, surrounded by two wide-eyed children. Only one dead man, five unconscious children, some bleeding, others simply passed out.

All they see is chaos. 

A proof of courage which was only a desire to belong, that many would call futile, Neville laying with a long cut on the side of his face. 

Two snakes who did their best to shield each other from spells, failing badly, impacts which lacerated their robes, stomach and arm damaged.

A long lost name which shall remain this way, palms burned by the love of a fierce mother who hasn't given up yet.

And one boy who, even upon fainting, bleeding from his own thoughts, managed to avoid touching the water once more. 

What Severus Snape witnesses is stupidity—a reminder of a war which should be long gone.

  
  



	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I honestly feel bad for Neville—the poor kid believed he was doing something good and mega fucked up.  
> Also I'm done with year 1? I'm as shocked as you are, to be honest. Have fun reading!

Neville wakes up.

It's a slow process; he notices the green curtains surrounding the bed, as if he were a sailor lost at sea, drifting in the middle of nowhere. Then, as his eyelids flutter for a moment, memories start to return.

  
  


He went to check on the stone—to protect, to do, for once in his existence, something brave. And that turned out to be another mistake. He recalls fighting the plant with light, easily enough, and then getting lost at the following task. 

"How d-d-daring of you," he heard the stutter in the voice first, lowering his wand immediately. Behind him, as nervous as usual, stood professor Quirrell. 

While his teaching methods were mediocre at best, Neville truly enjoyed having someone like him around. They were so similar, in his mind. Both a bit shy and awkward, doing their best.

"Professor! Are you here for the stone too—Snape is after it and—" 

"Oh, of course. Snape you say? What makes you think so?" 

Words started to pour out of his mouth, sentences too fast underneath the watchful gaze of his teacher. 

Why would he have been cautious? After all, it wasn't him the traitor, to Neville. No, that was Snape, bullying him relentlessly in Potions, causing him to be sick at the mere thought of standing in front of a cauldron. He smiled, relief washing over him, fingers shaking as Quirrell gently guided him towards the next room. 

"Let's go t-t-t-together then, I could use your presence. After all, it's imp-p-pressive you managed to figure out the mystery by yourself."

Soaking in praise, Neville ignored the way the fingers dug in his shoulder. As they found themselves in front of mirrors mined into two rows facing each other, he immediately searched for his teacher's face for assistance. 

"Professor B-Burbage designed this protection herself," Quirrell explained, pointing his wand towards the nearest mirror, "she teaches Muggle Studies, an e-e-elective."

That seemed an odd choice, to let a teacher specialized in a non-magical subject, create a trial designed to protect an object so important. Neville has been told, by his grandmother, by his whole family, how Muggle Studies is an outdated thing, barely worthy of being taught. It should be replaced by Alchemy or anything useful to wizards. The divide between the two worlds has to remain as wide as possible, muggleborns forced to adapt or withdraw. Neville approves, as he hasn't been taught anything else in the first place. Laws regarding Wizarding secrecy exist as a protection, that's all. And he wouldn't want to live among muggles—not after being threatened for being a possible squib for years, getting fed terrible tales of orphanages and similar places for unwanted children who can't do magic. In comparison being thrown from open windows or pushed down stairs to activate his magic doesn't seem that rough. 

"It's meant to relate to the science part of her curriculum, which, in that case, dwells into light refraction and the reaction between light and reflective surfaces," Quirrell narrated, throwing a small ball of light from the tip of his wand, watching it bounce from one mirror to another until a path appeared in front of them. Too focused on the spell, the young lion didn't notice how the stuttering had started to be less prominent in his teacher's voice, only to vanish completely as they walked on the path now visible in front of them. 

"Is it that useful—I mean, science is basically a weaker form of magic?" He mused out loud, the cave dragging them farther under the school. He guessed that between the fall off the trap door and how the following room was inclined... They must have been at ground level at some point, and then the tunnel went even deeper. 

"Her subject is a tedious topic in our community," Quirrell replied, "I find it a bit appealing it still exists, to be honest." 

Yet, Quirrell was aware of precise details about her curriculum—Contradictions which felt less important than the sudden room they ended into. Water dripping against walls and droplets surrounding another mirror, standing alone. He let Quirrell guide him in the water without being worried. In his mind that was simply another puzzle for them to solve. 

He should have been smarter—from the start, there was an oddity about this late meeting. Why would a teacher allow him to stay rather than remove points. Why would someone praise recklessness? 

It's only when the turban fell off, one hand returning against his shoulder and ensuring that he couldn't run, that Neville got it. 

A bit late—his other self putting the stone inside his pocket, and then his shaky lie about not knowing where it was—his body slammed against the mirror and then thrown aside.

  
  


Would it better to go back to sleep, instead of remembering such horror? The stone isn't in his pocket any longer, and he wonders if that—person ran away with it, if he caused something terrible. It's lucky that, while he is flooded by questions, the headmaster tugs on the curtains, stepping closer with a serene expression to calm his worries. 

However, the damage has been done. Neville's trust in adults having been shattered just enough for him to doubt the comforting words he receives. He accepts the bag of sweets left on his bed, and the praise for how brave he was, while thinking he was merely stupid. 

That's what happens, he supposes, when you play the hero. Snape wasn't even the traitor, he rushed to save the day—a bit late, levitating their bodies to the infirmary without much kindness. And Neville, once alone with his thoughts and too many unpleasant truths, bursts out crying. 

  
  
▲ ▲ ▲

Another boy wakes up, on the other side of the infirmary. One whose name has been changed to protect him from the exact words he's told. How his moth-Lily's love protected him once more. And if Dumbledore is aware of the soul piece missing from his forehead, he doesn't mention it. Instead, he babbles about heroes and the kind of devoted his parents would have wanted to see in their son. 

Gabriel wants to snarl, to shout that his actual parents would be horrified that this monster still exists—does the headmaster think that time has healed anything at all? His mother remains shaken by the lack of proper condolences, letter tucked longside a baby on her porch by a cold morning. He doesn't care at all if love burned Voldemort and caused Quirrell to disappear—he wants to go home, to be where his name isn't treated as a whim, or a mistake. 

He was there, when the others got hurt, when Blaise and Hermione, with only a handful of spells between the two of them, got hexed hard enough to be knocked out—had to coax Leonis into calming down for two damn minutes so he could try to save his friends. 

He didn't want a fight, even less to be called a fraud and a liar by a monster who murdered his biological parents in front of his eyes. Whatever his hands burned him, both of them in fact, what is left is the bitterness under his bandages. 

The headmaster retreats, after mentioning that the stone is gone for good—the sole relief of his futile speech—and Gabriel lays there for a long time. The nurse isn't letting him out for a while, so he better get used to this.

Soon enough, anyway, the curtains are ripped open by a bunch of familiar faces. Hermione, bandaged arm cradled against her chest, a couple of bruises on her face. Blaise, who is laying in the bed next to him, waving while chewing on candy, apparently on bed rest too. Ron and Pansy, the latter scolding everyone for almost getting murdered with a firm 'I told you so!' which makes Hermione sheepish. 

Apparently he woke up last, after three days, which is way too long. He hears about Quidditch results from Ron, sitting on the edge of his bed, not truly listening but appreciating the background noise nonetheless. Apparently Slytherin finished second in the Quidditch cup, leaving the victory to Ravenclaw. A bit of let down, not that he minds that much. After a while, his anger starts to lessen, mind soothed by his friends being there for him. 

They made it out alive. 

He barely pays attention to the figure stepping into the infirmary until Leonis crashes on the end of the bed, almost sitting on his feet. 

"Back from the dead?" 

"I should be the one asking, you look—" 

"Awful, yes, I'm aware," Leonis grins, expression forced, spoon twirling what's probably a hot chocolate he got from the kitchens, "That's a group problem."

Pansy nudges him in the ribs, boasting about the fact that not all of them were absolutely stupid—although they sort of were, months on looking into clues which should have been given to a professor. Hard to find one trustworthy enough. As for—consequences, Gaby wonders if anybody was punished although he doubts so. Dumbledore, in all his twinkling glory, seemed more keen on encouraging suicidal dispositions than scolding him for them.

The spoon hits the bottom of the mug, sound resonating around them, and Leonis doesn't bother looking apologetic. If anything, he appears to have done that on purpose to drag him away from compromising thoughts. 

"I have something to tell you—Blaise can you come closer?" 

"Is it a matter of life and death, Dursley?" 

"I fear so."

"Well, then."

With a placid smile, the boy holds out his hands, Ron and Hermione getting him back on his feet. He crashes on Gabriel's bed, and they spend an eternity attempting to make themselves comfortable before giving up. They are huddled together as some sort of secret society ready to unravel ancient secrets. Gabriel means forward, bandaged hands pressing softly against the blankets. 

"Before being—no, that wouldn't be right—let's say that I was adopted by family members when I was a baby."

"Unlocking your tragic backstory, Dursley?" 

Spoon pressed against his lips, chocolate stains on the bottom one, Leonis is observing. As calculating as ever, one leg dangling into the air as he awaits for a grand reveal that he might have guessed already. Gabriel wouldn't mind that much. 

"I'm Harry Potter. Was! Am. I mean—it's not my name, and I truly don't want to bear it ever again," he speaks while staring at the grey bed sheets which are probably older than him, "I'm definitely not a hero, and I have no attention to be used as one ever. I refuse to be a martyr, or anything I didn't ask for." 

The deafening silence is oppressive, causing him to keep his head down. A braver person would face their friends without doubt in their gaze, something he cannot do right now. Instead, he awaits to be branded as a liar, obvious disgust dripping in their voices. 

What Gabriel gets, instead, is Hermione reaching for a bandaged hand, giving a light squeeze. Then Blaise, handing him a chocolate frog, Ron assuring him he's fine, and Pansy complaining that she thought he was going to reveal something awful, not a simple name change.

There is more to the situation than that, although she does not appear to mind, purposefully twisting his words in something harmless for his sake. 

And Leonis—is still sipping his hot chocolate without a comment. 

"Nobody's mad?" 

"That's huge, mate, I mean I completely understand why you kept it to yourself," Ron supplies so fast he speaks over Hermione, who gives him a, albeit short-lived, scandalized look, "Harry Potter... You did save everyone though, against Quirrell. Serious talk, I had not suspected him at all."

"None of us did, he seemed so harmless," Blaise adds, leaning against Hermione to be more comfortable with the bandages underneath his shirt, "Not to mention his lessons were a complete chore." 

"I should have known he was a scam when he showed us outdated resources in class—" while Hermione rambles on facts and lessons that Gabriel has long forgotten, he glances towards Leonis, awaiting something from the other. 

He isn't certain of what he wants—a hint of boiling anger, perhaps, or understanding. They both carry secrets, after all. The terror he witnessed in the cave, when the other caught a glimpse of the water, rendered useless, that seems more than a simple fear. An intense phobia, he'd say. A problem for another day, for sure. 

Gabriel avoids thinking of the way he probably killed Quirrell, the weight of such action impossible to bear right now, self-defense or not. He has flashes of everyone, friends hit by hexes which could have been unforgivable or even fatal had Quirrell bothered to consider them as a threat. 

They weren't even underestimated—they're children, and that experience will remain imprinted for too long in their mind. The hopelessness of being unable to do anything—of being late, Neville already injured, and shocked by the grand reveal they couldn't have seen coming anyway. 

"I'd say we shall be more careful next time a professor attempts to murder us," Leonis eventually offers, sarcastic smile perfectly in place. 

"Sounds fair," Gabriel nods, "Let's not make a habit out of it, though, my hands still hurt."

While nobody finds it funny, they all end up snickering. It's the accumulated tension in their bones trying to get out at once. 

  
  


(Not quite enough to offer an olive branch to a child sitting on the other side of the infirmary just yet. 

One day though.) 

  
▲ ▲ ▲

In the common room, almost empty at such hour, Ronald is sitting in his pajamas—since the first day, he has been fascinated by the merpeople swimming in the lake, and the way they sometimes come closer for short chats via sign language with the older students—a blanket wrapped around his shoulders. 

He has tried to sleep with no avail—memories jolting him awake when he attempts to close his eyes. Snape was, to say the least, unhappy at being woken up that night. And even less pleased to hear about the situation. All Ron can think of is his friends laying on the floor of that cave, unconscious.

For a moment, he thought them dead and the thought is bubbling inside his mind, refusing to leave him alone. 

"Gummy worms?" 

The voice causes him to let out a startled noise, which Blaise seems to find amusing, the prick. He is still holding out a bag of swarming worms who are trying to crawl out of the package. With a groan, he plunges his hand inside, grabbing enough to fill his mouth. Maybe this way, he won't have to talk. 

A shame that Blaise is patient enough to wait, taking a seat next to him. 

"Thanks," he mumbles eventually. 

"You seemed to need that." 

"Yeah, I—can't really sleep? I know that I could go to the infirmary or something but what's the point?" he rubs the back of his neck. 

"It's much better to wallow in the beauty of our common room, I agree." 

"Come on—" Blaise is helping though, by being there, and he finds himself smiling shyly, "What about you anyway?" 

"Ah, I wanted to ask you something, and also my wounds are aching, so it's hard to lay down." 

"Shit, mate I'm sorry—" 

"It's fine, really. However, can you tell me why you volunteered to stay behind the other night?" 

For one moment, Ron fears that the question has to do with resentment, until he catches Blaise's concerned gaze. The other boy isn't that open with his feelings, in fact Ron would say he's the best of the group at controlling what he shows. Often, his tone is light and teasing, and he brushes off what doesn't interest him, so it's difficult to truly know how he's feeling. 

So, to read concern—for him, really? He's only a Weasley, and that jealousy is still eating him alive, even if he has been sorted in a different house. He can't help it, okay? It's simply there, tucked inside his heart, and he looks away. 

"You and Hermione are smarter than me, it made more sense for you to go—" 

He doesn't mention Leonis, although the same applies probably. The bag of gummy worms is offered once more and he only takes one, feeling it squirm against his tongue for a moment. Ah, he's on the verge of tears. 

"Well, Weasley, you do are a fool—Not in the way you think though."

As Blaise sinks into the couch, he stares up ahead at the burning fireplace. 

"For someone who beats me all the time at chess, you sure aren't good at applying the same strategic mind outside of our games. You would have done better than me, I'm sure of it."

That's weird, Ron realizes as a strangled sound escapes his throat, because it sounds like Blaise is the one with self-esteem issues out of nowhere. And he doesn't know what to say. 

That's not how he had pictured any of this—of the group dynamics. He was always funny Ron, a bit useless, a bit grumpy on bad days. Easy to tease, tongue tied into deep knots. And now, Blaise, chewing on gummy worms, seems to insinuate he's more than that. 

"You all survived, so you didn't mess up either—" 

"My brother clawed his skin until he bled—just because there was water and he was terrified, and I couldn't do anything. One spell and I was down." 

"You were facing an adult!" He doesn't say 'a murderer' nor his name, that's beyond what he can stomach, "I would have panicked so—" 

They stare at each other for a moment, brows furrowed together and sour expressions, until, slowly, Ron understands. He lets out a groan, opting to skin next to Blaise, letting the expensive sofa reclaim him too.

"We're both morons!"

"Excellent verdict."

As they share what's left of the sweets, unable to find a good way to address problems which will remain buried as deep as possible, Ron decides that's fine. They have time. 

"I'm glad you're here though. Like, right now. Thanks." 

"Likewise, Weasley."

"Up for a late game?" 

"If you insist."

He goes to retrieve one of the smaller chess sets, setting it on the low table so they can sit on cushions in front of each other. Better than letting his thoughts wander against his will. 

  
▲ ▲ ▲

Free of bandages and blemishes—only a hint of tension when someone walks too close without a warning, wands squeezed a bit tighter than they should, wood imprinted against fearful palms—they sit alongside the remaining snakes in the Great Hall. The year is ending, exams long behind them—they all succeeded, Hermione and Leonis standing in the top five of their year, whereas the others are not that far behind. Summer feels far though, as they have to sit through whispers and not so subtle glances. 

"As it is brave to protect what you hold dear, even if your hands are trembling, I award fifty points to Gryffindor for Neville Longbottom's actions." 

Immediately, fork deep into a piece of chicken, Ron makes an annoyed face. He has been prodding at his meal for a while, derisive of the way Dumbledore was going to turn their near-death encounter into some heroic act. 

"He almost got you guys killed, and he gets points for it?"

Ignoring the mumbling at the green and silver table, Dumbledore goes on. 

"Because they went to seek help, and thus saved their friends, I give Pansy Parkinson and Ronald Weasley ten points each."

The applause is a bit mild in comparison to the one Neville got, which doesn't surprise Gabriel—Gryffindor's hypocrisy considering their treatment of Neville sure is strong now that he got them so many points. 

Pansy joins Ron in complaining about the whole ordeal, even though they got called in front of the whole hall.

"That's all we are worth?"

Ronald stabs his chicken one more time.

Slytherin pride, without a doubt. 

"For having stood for what's just, and contributed to protecting their school, I award Hermione Granger, Blaise Zabini, Leonis Zabini, and Gabriel Po-Dursley ten points each."

The slip on the name almost causes Ronald to get up, holding his fork to threaten the headmaster, but luckily Blaise grabs his shirt to keep him on the bench. 

"No need to start a scene, we got more points than Longbottom."

"There are six of us! He's alone!" 

"House bias, that's how it is," Blaise reminds him, while putting a couple of roasted potatoes on Ron's plate to distract him from his murderous plans. Before he can add anything, their table erupts in loud cheers, and they blink, unsure or what's happening. 

It's Pansy who gestures towards the colors above their heads, and then they realize that even if they didn't gain much, that was enough to triumph over Gryffindor for the house cup. They are taken aback by the sudden colors above them—usually the results are announced before they start eating, but this time it was apparently turned into a surprise with the addition of their last minute points. 

Somehow, Gabriel feels bitter at their victory. They should have gotten a greater margin over the lions—not because they are superior or anything, as they are not, only out of common sense. They did more than Neville, down there. He can't truly blame the other boy for his foolishness—that was merely a need for attention, to be important to his peers.

It doesn't mean he is willing to talk to him before the end of Summer. 

As he watches Malfoy screaming in joy, bouncing on the bench while loudly telling everyone he is going to write to his parents although they go home the next day, he finds himself smiling a bit. What a show off—maybe they'll get along better, in the future. 

For now, as Nott snaps a couple of pictures with his camera, he makes the most ridiculous faces possible—just because he can. 

He's alive. 

His parents are going to throw a fit upon hearing he almost didn't make it back home. Ah he has time to make up a less dreadful story during the train ride, right?

  
  


Securing a compartment for six when you're only first years is more tricky than it appears and it takes them thirty minutes to be seated together. Which is immediately followed by a slight argument about who gets to seat next to the window—overall they manage. 

"What are your plans for the Summer? Outside of studying, Granger." 

"I was about to tell you about my upcoming trip to Paris with my parents—" 

"Paris? You have to visit us, we can arrange a portkey. Our mother will be delighted, right Leo?" 

Leonis, who is reading his usual Potions textbook, scribbling notes in the margin, lets out a 'hm, yeah', which is definitely a seal of approval.

"Ron, you can come over at my place if you want," Gabriel whispers in the midst of the now animated conversation next to them; Pansy gushing over Paris' magical shops and urging Hermione to bring her back specific products, while Blaise offers the names of his favorite places, writing them down on parchment. 

With flushed cheeks—still a bit uneasy about mattering as an individual at times—Ron nods. 

"I'd love that! We can go watch movies and—oh eat fast food and—watch television. I missed a whole year of Doctor Who, that's terrible."

Gabriel finds his enthusiasm contagious, nodding at everything. 

"Sure, in August if that's fine with you? My parents will write to yours, I guess?" 

As long as no owl is involved, this should work out. Gabriel flexes his hands a bit, burn marks long gone. They are a bit itchy still, at times. Nothing unbearable. Wizards sure do how to heal wounds fast, a shame they refuse to share this knowledge with muggles.

Ah, that sure was an interesting year. 

  
  
  



	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Summer break! I planned on going into second year right away, but turns out I wanted to write that part too. Ft Leonis being extra, Blaise being the diplomatic one, Hermione learning about Dark Arts. Gaby and Ron having a sleepover with Dudley. And, of course, Pansy accidentally befriending Ginny while trying to be polite.
> 
> Molly be like "This girl is now my child and I will knit her a sweater." 
> 
> I haven't replied to your comments yet but I'm going to do it soon. I do love them!

Summer rolls in—minds untangling themselves from the hardships of the school year—distance leaving the heart fonder for their next meeting. 

Altogether, this is also a time for discoveries, to push beyond what's allowed at Hogwarts—they must be a bit ruthless, pureblood minds and all, eager to prove others wrong—which is why Blaise and Leonis take Hermione with them for some shopping. They ought to, since she is there, caught in the delusion that Paris is to tourists—their mother hates this city, although she doesn't mention it to her guests.

Instead, she invites the Grangers to eat with her, insisting that she would be delighted to hear about their line of work.

Truth be told, she lacks that inappropriate interest that certain wizards have towards muggles, not wishing to study them akin to animals behind a glass at the zoo. She is, however, an excellent host, luring them into the expensive place she picked to her own delight. They didn't take a portkey to Narbonne, as she didn't feel like filing paperwork to give muggles the right to travel as fast as them. Instead, there was a train ride, which ended up in Dijon, a medium-sized city with its own shopping street for wizards.

As she regals the Grangers with tales and tricks, guiding them to her favorite dishes, she lets her children drag Hermione into another world. 

Convenient for everyone, right? 

  
  


The air is heavy, sun blasting against the pavement as they slide between older wizards who pay them no attention. 

"Dijon is known for its mustard," Granger recites, as if she had imprinted facts onto her brain, eager to share them, "Nowhere in my books it's stated it has a magical street—" 

"France has four actually, and frankly the one in Paris is a complete hassle to navigate," Blaise replies, offering his arm so she doesn't get lost in the crowd. She seems a bit uneasy, although she accepts the gesture, "The prices tend to be quite an exaggeration also." 

That's a polite way to say that buying a wand in Paris is akin to ripping off a limb and putting it on the counter, only for the shopkeeper to remind you they don't give out change. 

Blaise refrains from mentioning that detail, or any other. He got his wand—and Leonis'—in a less reputable shop in Dijon. The sort where you won't find the place unless you know about it, and it's great that their mother is somehow always aware of that kind of thing. 

Either way, the wand is legal, no odd component, and it works like a charm. Leonis can only validate two out of three statements for his. Which is far from important. 

Blaise is an excellent guide, just like his mother, showing Granger around. Of course, that little trip won't account for their textbooks—the lobby of Hogwarts supplies being too deeply integrated into Diagon alley—which doesn't mean they can't get the rest. From robes to, well, quills and such. 

Leonis goes missing within ten minutes, slipping away without getting noticed. Granger doesn't appear to mind, getting used to his antics. Instead, she questions everything they encounter. 

"Which electives do they offer in Beauxbâtons? Oh, do you think I could find a couple of Potions ingredients around there? The kit you got me for Christmas came with only a little pouch of each, and I'm out of powdered teeth and crushed snake scales—" 

Blaise hums, shifting his body so they are heading for the Apothecary. 

"May I ask what you're using powdered teeth for?" 

"Honestly? I'm not sure myself. But I've read that adding a pinch into any potion can alleviate the effect of the previous ingredient you added and sometimes I get quantities wrong, so it's useful. Am I wrong?"

"I have no clue, you should ask Leo—once he's back from the dark corner where he opted to hide. As for Beauxbatons—ah, I am unsure. They do offer more than Hogwarts, but they also tend to experiment and switch subjects from time to time."

For the thrill of knowledge or because of new laws erasing previous ones. About that, he wonders if Malfoy, and the rest of the Wizengamot, intends on validating one useful decree this year. Ah, politics. Blaise has nothing against watching, same as Quidditch truly, although getting involved is another thing completely. 

"Besides we're not even officially in second year, you have time to think about it." 

"I know! I'm simply—" 

"Worried? About picking wrong?" 

"Exactly."

Her shoulders slump a bit as she browses through a box of books for sale—they were on their way to the Apothecary when she got carried away. As expected. She's holding an outdated version of the History of Beauxbâtons, looking at the damaged cover with a dejected expression. 

"You can drop electives, although taking more is mostly forbidden and I don't want to—pressure myself into setting for things I don't even enjoy either."

Blaise, whose gaze keeps on shifting towards a book by his side which seems to be an unfortunate love triangle ending in tragedy from the cover—the amount of skulls and roses around the title is a bit of an overkill—has no idea what to reply to that. While he gets the feeling, he believes that Parkinson will get more efficient at putting Granger back onto a path of self-confidence. 

"You have a whole year ahead of you to decide," he reminds her, hoping to have the same comforting tone as Dursley. He does not. Although it works out more or less, "Buying anything?"

Most of the books are in French, which isn't enough to stop Hermione from going through the box for ten minutes until she admits that's enough. He makes a mental note to go through the Zabini library before returning to Hogwarts, in case they have further reading on Beauxbâtons available. 

  
  


As they make their way out of the Apothecary—finally, that only took two more stops—Leonis appears back in front of them, dark umbrella hanging precariously on his shoulder to shield him from the sun. As expected from someone who seems allergic to sunlight. And to life in general. 

That's how the trio ends up sitting on the ledge of a fountain that Leonis eyes warily, eating ice-cream with their purchases bagged at their feet. 

Leonis, sunglasses falling a bit off his face, doesn't address them, busy inhaling his ice-cream before it melts onto his fingers. 

"What did you get?" Granger asks him anyway, sliding only a bit closer. 

Blaise watches the scene unfolds, raspberry soft against his tongue as Leonis makes a show of lowering his umbrella between them to prevent contact. 

"What you'd call light reading."

"Can I take a look?" 

Her soles are pressing against the ground in anticipation, her free hand fidgeting into the air as she awaits for a reply. Eventually, with a dramatic sigh, Leonis pushes his bag towards her with his foot, much to her delight. 

Of course, the book is in French, sober maroon cover not announcing much about the contents. Granger manages to open it with only one hand, revealing a litany of text. Definitely not Potions related. Blaise, who can read French with ease, allows the cogs in her mind to turn for a while before offering an explanation. 

Can't risk her getting rusty after all. 

"I reckon you would appreciate a book on basic French for your birthday, which is coming up." 

"How do you even—Pansy." 

"She knows everything about everyone somehow." 

"How does she bloody do that," Leonis mumbles by their side, tongue and lips slightly colored by the blueberry ice-cream he has finished by now. 

"I'm not sure I want to know, actually. And yes Blaise, I would love that—if that's not a bother."

She stares at the words on the page, voice smaller suddenly. That's another thing for either Dursley, Weasley, or Parkinson, and since neither is around, Blaise gives an encouraging 'hm'. At least it sounds that way to him. 

"So, what's this book about?" 

"Meddling with the Dark Arts," is Leonis' immediate response. A bit on the sharp side too, fingers running through black curls as he speaks, umbrella on the verge of falling into the fountain behind him. 

Granger, brows furrowed, one foot kicking the air involuntary, doesn't formulate a reply. Instead, she runs a couple of ideas through her head first, Blaise has been around her enough to tell. Thus, he waits. 

Ah, how he loves the beauty of the late afternoon—the fountain gently echoing behind them, and the people going past the children without paying attention. Surely, the adults have finished their expensive lunch by now. They ate in some fast food place, if only because their mother usually doesn't allow it, and having Granger around was the perfect excuse. 

"Isn't that forbidden? Not like a corridor with giant cerberus on the other side kind of forbidden—more of a landing into prison sort of thing?" 

Sometimes Leonis does look at people as if they were a dead fish on his plate—fingers tugging his sunglasses down so he can stare at Granger. 

"Only if you get caught doing a blood ritual in the middle of a school by using a classmate as sacrifice, and then you'd probably get suspended first." 

A pause. 

"I'm being sarcastic, nothing wrong with reading that."

"Oh. Still—" 

As she isn't the best at threading carefully—he'd argue that Granger lacks tact, and is sometimes the most hot-headed of them all—he opts to slide back into the conversation. 

"You've read Parkinson's guide on pureblood society, thus you get that the Dark Arts are a part of the culture. Sure, it has been abused countless times. It's a fascinating topic though. And some of our classes very lightly incorporate it." 

"Really?" 

"Potions is the prime example. Certain ingredients are considered dark, such as powdered teeth or anything related to organs and such, and then you have Herbology—I can tell by your expression you do not believe me, but poisonous plants are also considered part of Dark Arts. Basically anything which could harm someone. Even when it's not used to do so," he lets her digest the words. 

After a moment, book back into the bag, she finally lifts her chin. 

"But Defence—was taught by Quirrell. He told us all these terrible things on the Dark Arts, how they corrupt and ruin the mind."

That's a heavy topic for Summer break. 

Blaise isn't certain of how to address it, thus he lets his brother have the pleasure.

"Probably talked from experience," Leonis interjects, palm against his cheek, "nobody has messed up with dark magic as much as him. Britain has this obsession on Light and Dark as if they were indicators of value. Truth is—the war fucked both sides over completely. Alternatively, if you follow a genocidal maniac, you reap what you sow," he finishes abruptly. 

"So, you both study the Dark Arts?" 

As they nod, Granger, trapped between both of them, hesitates to ask another question. Definitely 'but you're not evil, right?'. To his relief, she swallows it down and instead opts to talk about their friends and how she promised Parkinson a gift. 

When her parents, and their mother, finally appear, Blaise glances at Leonis, internally grateful that the bandages around his arm stop him from causing further damage—it's too hot for long sleeves, but he doesn't want to put his scars on display either. 

That or phantom memory imprinted against skin. Who knows? 

  
▲ ▲ ▲

The Knight bus is a bloody death trap—Ron was told to hold onto something, which doesn't help when the whole structure seems to go apart with each turn—he does arrive alive nevertheless. A bit unsteady when he steps onto Privet Drive—he hopes the Dursleys won't mind that the neighbors got their mailbox dented by the bus. Oh, they probably won't know what caused it anyway. 

Holding the straps of his backpack—he does have the typical school kid appearance, outside of the uniform, and the fact it's Saturday in the middle of August at seven in the evening—Ronald steps forward.

He knocks politely on the door, waiting for a while while he can rehearse what he's supposed to say—hello, how are you, yes the journey went fine, oh here my mom baked you an apple pie—only to end up in front of a kid he has never seen before.

"Hi—" 

"Gaby, your friend is here! Hey, get inside." 

"Thanks." 

Ronald takes pride in being knowledgeable in muggle things—from birthday parties to microwaves and the mail system—which doesn't mean he is used to sleepovers. In fact, once in front of Gabriel's parents, who appear before his friend, he goes on autopilot. 

"Hello, good travel—I mean the journey went okay—here, accept this pie, my mom baked it because Gabriel said you like apples so—" out of breath, an amazed that the pie survived in his bag without getting destroyed by the ride, Ronald greedily drinks the glass of water that the man hands him. 

"That's their damn bus, it's an absolute disaster Vernon, once Lily threw up in the bushes after being on it," the woman rants, while guiding him to the couch so he can rest, "Gaby is showering, but he'll be down in five minutes. Don't hesitate to ask if you need anything." 

"Thank you, ma'am." 

Once they are gone, and it's only Gabriel's brother and him on the couch—the amount of floral print among the room is making him uneasy for some reason, Ron wonders if he's supposed to start a conversation or something. 

Luckily, the kid, Dudley, he thinks, is faster than him. 

"So, you play video games?" 

"Not much—my sister has a gameboy though. Super Mario Land is her favorite game right now," the couch is slowly reclaiming him, which he doesn't mind. His brain is still jolting in his skull due to the Knight bus. 

"Neat, I love that one too. Younger or older sis?" 

"Younger, by eleven months." 

"Almost twins, I mean sorta."

"People often say that." Which is funny considering that his family has a pair of identical twins. He finds it nice, since Ginny is his favorite sibling. Leaving her felt a bit sad, honestly. After all these months apart. But it's only for four days, and he missed Gabriel. 

"Ron, you made it!" 

At the mention of his name, he has to remove himself from the couch and its attracting power to stand in front of his friend. The embrace is short-lived, although welcome. Gabriel touches people a bit more than the rest of the group, he noticed.

"Mom is making grilled chicken and roasted potatoes for dinner, and she told me about the pie—so, how have you been?" 

"Great, playing Quidditch, helping around and such. Ginny and I camped in the field behind the house last week. It was wicked."

Turns out, in spite of writing to each other, they have a lot to tell. And Dudley is eager to join into the conversation which isn't odd to Ron. After all, he always has a handful of siblings around.

  
  


Dinner is a joyful affair—he avoids dipping into magic more than compulsory, as Gabriel advised in his letters, and that goes well—the Dursleys treating him kindly. And later, the three boys go to play soccer in the backyard, tossing and kicking the ball to each other. 

The sun is still up, which makes it hard to believe they'll be in bed in a couple of hours. 

"So, what are you doing at school this year?" Dudley eventually asks once his parents are back inside to watch television. 

"Hopefully nothing which could cause us to die," Ron mumbles, only to be nudged by Gabriel, "Erm, studying more than I'd like, I suppose. Oh and my sister is joining, I hope she'll be in our house."

Ignoring the part about dying—either to be polite or because Dudley was busy kicking the ball against the fence to 'score'—the boy stops in his track at the last part. 

"Gaby told me I'd be in Hufflepuff, 'coz I'm loyal and hard working. Not at school, but like outside of it." 

"Cool." 

"And their common room is apparently super cozy and welcoming." 

"Did you lecture him Hermione-style on the houses?" 

"He asked!" 

Laughing, Ron runs to snatch the ball, passing both boys to shoot against the wooden fence.

Which leads to the neighbors complaining, and Petunia telling them that children do play, and they could have told them to tone it down rather than calling them brats—she lets them drink lemonade before bed to make up for the whole thing. Ron doesn't think it was necessary but he appreciates the gesture anyway. 

  
  


(Gabriel whispers to him about an odd incident involving an unwanted guest days earlier, and his mother telling him that 'no Harry Potter would go to Hogwarts so he better leave as fast as possible before she'd learn where he's from'.

Apparently destiny still hates Harry Potter, and nobody remembers Petunia is a squib.) 

  
  


He likes that—being there, sitting on a mattress in Gabriel's room, excitingly talking about everything and nothing at once. He feels like he truly belongs, not that it ain't the case at home. It's simply different. 

Then Dudley sneaks into the room, and they use a torch to play on his gameboy, taking turns, until Vernon, not fooled, knocks on the door to remind them to sleep. 

  
▲ ▲ ▲

At best, Pansy would call her Summer dreadful. Mother and Father hovering over her shoulders, peering into whatever she is doing in search of a fault. How convenient for them to make a disappointment out of her existence. She wonders if it's due to her lack of interest in people they judge worthy of attention. Not that it matters. They have long made their mind about who she is, and Pansy has stopped caring. 

They have always oscillated between exigeant and neglectful—no pureblood child would use that wording, although that's how it is—which is why she isn't surprised when she finds the outfit she is supposed to wear to shop at Diagon Alley on her bed after her shower, alongside a note telling her to use the floo on her own to buy her supplies and ensure they are send here. 

Finally an ounce of freedom. Although she finds herself uneasy in the outfit—there is a large ribbon she should put into her short hair, but she'd rather swallow it whole—she doesn't complain to her mirror. What would be the point? 

  
  


She strolls between Knockturn and Diagon Alley, posture perfect, never a step faster than another, although nobody is looking at her enough to notice. To them, she isn't someone important enough—most of the pureblood children only matter when standing next to a parent, after all. As she is browsing through the Magical Menagerie—her parents won't allow her a pet, not until she is in third year like for her sisters before her, which doesn't stop Pansy from looking—she spots a familiar shade of red outside. Time to abandon the cacophony to head out. 

(Pansy would love a cat, something fluffy to sleep by her side when she is having a not so optimal day—that will have to wait though.)

Introductions are somewhat tricky, due to Pansy not being that familiar with the Weasleys. Sure, they are blood traitors, lower than dirt, but that doesn't sound like an ideal approach. 

"Well met," she offers instead, and the matriarch observes her for a moment before replying. 

"Well met, young lady. Aren't you the young Parkinson girl my son is acquainted with?" 

Pansy does appreciate she did not say 'friend', as that would have been opening a can of worms. She nods, politely, her eyes searching for the young girl standing next to the woman. A bit behind her too.

"Ah, that's Ginevra, my youngest. Starting Hogwarts this year!" 

"Well met, Miss Parkinson," the girl offers, stepping aside so she isn't hiding behind her mother any longer. Good, much better behavior from someone like them. Their robes might not come from Twilfitt and Tatting's, like hers, which doesn't mean they can't carry themselves with the same pride. 

"I'm done with my shopping and was about to head home, however it's early and I wouldn't mind walking with you, if you allow it." 

Ginevra is a potential ally, just as her brother. Hadn't he been a Slytherin, she would have left as fast as possible in the presence of his family. Here though, she sees no reason to. And Molly Weasley wastes no time accepting her presence.

While some of the questions are polite babble meant to fill the silence, Pansy doesn't mind as much as she feared. Nor she comments, lacing her ferocious tongue, when they visit one second hand shop after another.

"You were at the Menagerie earlier, fancying a pet?" 

"Merely browsing, my parents believe I am too young for such distraction." 

"That's a shame. Little Ginny has Scabbers, the family rat. He's over ten and still kicking."

"You must have taken care of him quite well for that," somehow she is certain rats do not live that long. However, Pansy has not enough knowledge to dispute that claim and she is incredibly busy trying not to cringe at Ginny trying one second hand wand after another. 

(That's so unfit of who they are.) 

The child—she's not that younger—must have noticed because she sticks her tongue out when her mother isn't looking. And Pansy immediately returns the gesture.

That's wrong.

Harmless though. And her parents and sisters aren't there—the note said they were busy attending lunch with friends. So why should she care? 

"Here, hold your wand like that—" she takes out hers, showing Ginevra the correct grip so she can find one which fits her. That's a long trial and error which lasts for ten minutes until purple sparks finally comes out from a wand which was hidden at the bottom. 

A relief, truly.

The price is awfully low, and Weasley Junior is beaming, so Pansy cannot truly complain. Not out loud at least.

"I'm saving up for a broom, for next year." 

Ah that also makes sense.

"Do you wish to get on the team? Flint would be delighted to have a Weasley to counterattack the two playing for Gryffindor," it's as subtle as the Knight bus roaming into a wall for sure, but Pansy wants to test the waters regarding the whole house business. 

"Yeah! I'm definitely joining as soon as I'm old enough."

No 'ew' at the mention of Slytherin? Perhaps they'll make something interesting out of that one. 

"I'mma wait for the broom though, since next season new models might come out and knock down prices for the older models."

"Wise," who thought she would be complimenting another Weasley in that lifetime? Definitely not her. 

  
  


After an unfortunate encounter with Malfoy senior and junior, where Pansy's busy adding a layer of dripping sarcasm to her formal salutations while Ginevra insults his son with ease, she finds herself sitting at Rosa Lee Teabag in front of the young Weasley and her mother. Which wasn't part of the deal. 

In fact, she doesn't remember agreeing to anything, only that Molly Weasley asked her if she wished to drink tea with them sometimes—and why not now in fact. Here she is, legs crossed and hands folded on her lap. She hopes this isn't a trap, or a hidden way to get intel out of her. 

(In retrospect, she might be overestimating her importance in witching society.) 

She wonders about rules—binding her brain akin to a safety net, in that regard she might be similar to Granger—regarding tea time. Many of them do not appear to matter, Ginny holding her cup with both hands, as if it were a mug, without getting scolded by her mother. 

Pansy, who isn't given such input in her own decisions—oh, she loathes that—merely holds her the proper way. Aka the sole one which is acceptable. 

"Your robes are really pretty," Ginevra bursts out without a warning. 

She reminds Pansy of Granger, who thanked her hours after meeting her—the same blunt kindness she doesn't truly understand, having fed on jealousy and pretenses. The fact her mind keeps on drifting back to Granger and their weird thing, friendship some may dare to say, is infuriating. She cannot tell if the child is complimenting her to gain her approval or because she—

These are nice robes, really. Deep blue, with ribbons sewed around the sleeves, and an elegant pattern of a bird embroidered near the shoulders. 

That's—not what she likes. Pansy cannot voice that, because she isn't one to trust and bend to please others. In spite of that, she still finds herself at a loss for something to reply for a while. 

"I'm pleased you think so, my mother offered them to celebrate the new school year," she recites, a hint of monotony in her voice. 

For a second, as Mrs. Weasley puts down her teacup, she wonders if it went as far as showing on her face. That would be prosperous, to believe so. 

"If you are sorted in Slytherin," she adds so the adult isn't able to talk first, "I'd be happy to show you the ones I have. In return, you can finally win us the Quidditch cup, Flint has been intolerable over our constant loss. Which position do you play?"

"I'd really like to," Ginevra, Pansy learns, is even more exuberant than her brother. Ah, she hopes she doesn't share his self-doubt too, that would be a hassle, "Chaser mostly. But we take turns when we play with my brothers, so I'll see. Do you play?" 

"Absolutely not, although I do watch." 

While the conversation goes on, little exchange of pleasantries, Molly Weasley opts to remain mostly silent, probably relinquishing in her daughter opening up to someone. She does speak a bit though, especially when she insists to pay since she invited Pansy. 

"I'm glad Ronnie found a friend like you, you seem to be a reliable girl," she tells her as they exit the tea shop, "I was a bit worried at first—" 

"Because we're Slytherin." 

"I guess so," Molly shakes her head, eyes on Ginevra walking a couple of steps ahead of them, "If Ginny gets sorted with you lot, could you keep an eye on her for me?" 

Pansy chokes on air, which is absolutely ridiculous. Out of all the way this chat could have gone, this is the one she didn't even consider. Struggling to keep a straight face—who asks that from the daughter of an enemy—she eventually decides to accept. 

"That would be an honor," not quite the truth, although burden wouldn't fit either, she simply has no idea what to make out of this, "why are you asking me though? I do not intend on sounding rude but—" 

"Ronald told me you were fiercely protective of your friends, although he did admit it took awhile for you two to warm about each other." 

First of all, Pansy is going to strangle Weasley for—that's a compliment, still the threat remains. Why would anyone think of her as protective or caring? 

"You're kids, we ain't going to drag you into what's old and boring—I'm glad your generation is more open than mine." 

Oh. 

"I'll make it work," is her sole reply. That's a lot to digest at once.

She doesn't regret that meeting, she decides when they part ways, and Molly Weasley promised to send her a little something for Christmas. That's odd, the warmth in her stomach as she finds herself back into her room, thinking about—another possibility of a friend. A real one, unlike Daphne and the others who left her because she's apparently too much to handle.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Absolutely loved writing this chapter! I'll reply to your comments soon, I promise. Thanks again.
> 
> Also, this chapter introduces Theodore properly, through unfortunate circumstances. Snape remembers an old somewhat friend, for his standards. Ginny gets sorted!

In retrospect, there are plenty of reasons to miss a train.

Theirs has the merit to be so ridiculous they are certain to remember it for a while.

It starts with lunch, Weasleys and Dursleys sitting together in a small restaurant in the muggle part of London. Nothing fancy, fish and french fries shared in good faith—his mother, lips pressed together on one more than one occasion, makes a valiant effort to be pleasant—and nothing could lead them to believe the rest of the day is going to be a disaster.

Here is what happens, more or less in order: both families leave their children at the train station, a vending machine swallows Gabriel's money without offering compensation and George (probably, might be Fred) kicks it so hard they have to walk away from disapproving adults, without candy, and Ron needs to use the restroom.

Gabriel goes with him, leaving their trunks with the remaining Weasleys, and has to wait like an idiot in front of the place for ten minutes. Which leads him to also go to empty his bladder because it's not like they are late.

Except they are (once again,  _ probably _ ).

Hands still wet from being washed and then wiped against his pants—his mom would be furious if she was there—they find a way to collide with someone on their way towards the platform.

They can't truly walk out with a mumbled apology since the kid on the ground is a classmate. 

Because, you know, nothing says this is a bad day like piling up catastrophes on top of each other.

"You alright here, mate?" Ron asks as if he hadn't blasted into the boy akin to a rocket aimed for the moon. 

For a while, he gets no response, fixed gaze avoiding either of them completely, and then Nott blinks, rejecting the hand Gabriel is offering to get back on wobbly knees on his own. His long white hair—color standing out—is a mess he pushes behind his ears. No word spills from his lips, often sealed outside of a couple of smirks mirroring people around him, and he looks at them—at both of them–as if they were merely an inconvenience he could do without. 

"You need help with your trunk?" Gabriel asks even if the answer is evident. He watches, when Theodore shakes his head, rebellious strands of hair falling against his cheeks. 

(One year of being in the same house, and he is certain he never had a conversation with the other. 

Nott is impossible to miss—he stands out with his pale eyes, avoidant gaze impossible to grasp until it lands on you, knocking the air off your lungs, lips curled into something almost vicious for one second—although Gabriel wouldn't be able to tell where he stands regarding the grand scheme of things. 

Away from it, perhaps.)

The barrier refuses to open for them—they crash backward, Nott once more ending on his butt whereas Gabriel spends ten solid seconds looking for his glasses. Ron, first back onto his feet, holding his nose with his hand, stares at their sole way to the train, now unreachable. 

"Blimey, and my parents who pick that year to leave early," he groans, not fancying a walk to the ministry to get a hold of his dad. What would he even tell him, anyway? "We are on time—sorta—so what happened?" 

While Nott is offering an unwarranted smile (it leaves him a bit creeped out, to be honest), Gabriel thinks he can figure out who is behind that. 

First of all, his mom is going to be pissed. And then, she may destroy the Wizarding world just because. 

It is definitely that house-elf, who, for unforeseen reasons, thought that playing that trick would secure the whole  _ No Harry Potter at Hogwarts _ . Wasn't the whole identity problem solved though? He cannot say a word of this to Ron, not as long as Theodore is standing next to them. 

There is a slim chance that the house-elf simply blocked the passage after almost all students went through, believing that would ensure his safety. Instead, that terrible creature left them stranded in the midst of the station without any adult to lend them a hand. 

Fine, Gabriel is fuming.

Mostly because he is not Potter, and never will be anymore. And that—he bites the inside of his cheek, to focus. To be more than a lost kid with his friend and some ice prince misplaced from a colder country. 

"Either way, we should contact someone," Ron continues, "Gaby are your parents home already?" 

"Not for a while, they wanted to show Dudley around London." 

"Damn, then we can walk to the Ministry of Magic and—urg, that would take forever and I'm not even sure I can find the place from memory. Although I wouldn't be the one to get lost on my way to the Great Hall, unlike others." 

"Is now the time to be like that?" Gabriel snaps back, offended at the remark. He has only misplaced his textbooks once or twice the previous year, and yes that always happened on days where he was supposed to bring them to class and not Ron. A buddy system which sounded excellent in theory, and terrible in practice, "I can find the Great Hall just fine, I simply forget things there sometimes."

"Yeah, when it's convenient for you—" 

The stress of the situation wrapping around them like a cloak made of thunder isn't helping. 

What does, however, is Nott almost leaving them behind without a second thought, strolling outside while pushing the trolley with his trunk in front of him. It's the whine from the wheels which cause Gabriel and Ronald to realize what's happening and they are quick to regroup. 

"Where are you going? To your father?" 

Gabriel presumes there is another complicated history behind the way Theodore stops. Shoulders slumping, and knuckles turned even whiter from the way he is holding onto the trolley as if he wished to send it slamming into the nearest muggles. 

Maybe he wants that. 

Gabriel doesn't ask. 

When Theodore speaks, not the first time he is hearing his voice, although it does feel this way, he doesn't say much. 

"I'd rather not involve him. I'm taking the Knight bus." 

"Oh yeah, great plan," Ron nods before Gabriel can say anything. There is an urge to panic, to let old thoughts and patterns return—to imagine the disappointment in his parent's eyes, to be told that maybe he shouldn't go to Hogwarts if he can't do anything right—ah, it has been years since they are a proper family, and yet his brain is still filled with static sometimes. 

  
  


Once they have reached out—a swift gesture with his wand—for the bus, they wait on a cold bench not far from the station, Theodore's trunk next to them. The chill air of September wraps around the children, sitting there in silence, until they spot their ride heading straight for them. 

Theodore almost orders a hot chocolate, only to be stopped by Ron—something about not wanting for him to arrive drenched in a burning drink—while the latter is fumbling to find enough money in his pockets to pay for the ride. In the end, Gabriel gets them two tickets, shrugging a bit at Ron's obvious embarrassment. 

Vernon has always told him to carry his wallet directly on him, just in case. Now he sees why. 

They are almost killed by Theo's (ah, Gabriel gets way too familiar with people sometimes) trunk as it rams from one side of the bus to another and he silently hopes the other isn't carrying anything fragile. 

Once again, they haven't much to say—outside of a mumbled apology from Ron about earlier, because he was mad and frightened and that apparently turns him into a fool. Gabriel doesn't mind much, although he admits that he needs to track his stuff better this year. 

  
  


Hogsmeade is apparently the farther the Knight bus can go. Either they can opt to wait at the train station, which isn't far, or walk to the castle on their own. Gabriel, exhausted by that short trip, and now clearly approving of his mother's distaste of the bus, suggests they walk to the castle anyway. 

The train won't arrive for a while—kind of ironic considering they were afraid of being late—thus he sees no reason to hang there. It's not like they could shop without arising questions anyway. All three of them carry the trunk together, in what's probably the closest of teamwork they'll get. 

  
  


"Hello, professor Snape, how was your Summer?" Gabriel inquires when he spots the man glaring down at them in front of the entrance, "We have an incident to report—" 

"The barrier closed on us," Ron chimes in, "We took the bus but we wanted to tell an adult, you know."

That's an utter lie they planned to slide inside the school and their dorm without being noticed—wishful thinking considering the portraits hanging everywhere on the way. 

Theodore doesn't bother saying anything, although he does seem relieved when Snape levitates his trunk for him. 

A bit less so when all three of them are sitting in his office not long after. 

Unlike other professors, Snape doesn't offer biscuits, although the tea they get is delicious (and perhaps laced with poison for their insolence but they avoid thinking about that, Gabriel supposes). The fireplace, gently creaking behind his seat, provides a comfortable warmth, and Gabriel could almost ignore how dark the office is. Not much decoration either, outside of a couple of plants hanging off the ceiling, probably ingredients, and shelves next to the desk, filled with books whose titles he cannot distinguish. 

"Explain yourselves one more time." 

Gabriel has the disagreeable impression that Snape's focus is mostly on him, for some reason. Gulping down his tea, he awaits for the others to go forth with the story, with no avail. 

"Dursley." 

"Honestly, I think we picked the less dangerous way to reach the school? Could have—erm I don't want to know how it could have been worse, I think." 

Snape, who is sitting on an armchair and not looming over them with nothing but fatigue in his eyes, does appear to be deep in thoughts. The sort of 'can I remove house points if the year hasn't officially started' thoughts. By his side, Ronald is sipping his tea as silently as possible.

Theodore, for a lack of better word, has long disposed of the conversation and seems content staring right ahead of him, awaiting for this to be done with. 

"Detention?" He tentatively suggests. 

"Yes, Mister Dursley, detention. Every Tuesday evening for three weeks."

Snape is odd. Not because he has the reputation of being an utter disaster with students and having no regard for their safety—the second part, Gabriel has to admit, is probably wrong. The first one, yeah that's a fact. The man is oozing Slytherin favoritism like Dumbledore would sacrifice all of them in the name of a greater good. And Gabriel doesn't think either is fair to them. 

"So, what were we supposed to do?" 

Snape blinks. Ronald pours himself another cup. Theodore sure is physically present. 

"Not be late."

"That's—we weren't. Also why would the barrier close anyway?" Pesky house-elves. Not that Gabriel can say that. 

"I'll look into it, since it seems so important."

He'd rather not head straight for another death trap, that's all. Gabriel doesn't say that, obviously. 

"Thank you, for the tea. And your time," his mother has taught him that politeness is a weapon as much as venom tucked in sharp fangs. And he might not get Snape, but the punishment isn't disproportionate, and they won't miss the ceremony, "Will you contact our families?" 

"Obviously." 

"My mother might come to have a small conversation with the headmaster, she wanted to last year but nobody told her I was in mortal danger apparently, and she'll see this as an excuse."

"Petunia Dursley is your mother, right?" 

"Yes, you know her?" 

Snape has the sour expression of someone who is going through ten layers of unwanted memories. All he says instead is 'I do.' and somehow, Gabriel wonders if he isn't going to directly walk her to the headmaster's office if she visits. His mom has a reputation after all. 

As they are told to retreat to the Great Hall after getting changed, Gabriel catches a glimpse of Theodore wrapping his arms around himself and then stopping as soon as he notices that someone is staring. 

That's—something which will have to wait as he's gone into his room before Gabriel can open his mouth. Same for Ron. 

"Dursley. Were you serious about your mother visiting to shout at our esteemed headmaster for endangering you the previous year?" Snape asks, almost casually. Oh yes, the head of his house, he almost forgot about him for a moment.

"She did tell me she wanted to throw him under a train, sir. She wasn't more specific, I'm afraid."

"Terrific." 

Gabriel is fairly certain to have misheard that. 

"By the way, you should look up some house-elf named Dobby, he threatened my family for some reason? Mistook me for Harry Potter." 

Silence. 

That's sort of normal to assume that the teachers know who he is? At least, Dumbledore does, and Snape knows his adoptive mother, so. 

"Well, I'll see into it. Why are you still there? Go get your robes, Dursley." 

  
  


Once into his room, Gabriel takes a moment to consider that a teacher just advocated violence against Dumbledore as if this was a perfectly normal conversation. 

Perhaps, Snape isn't _that_ bad. 

Or it's Gabriel who is a bit messed up. 

Oh well, the scar, the fact he was abandoned on a porch in the middle of the night, and the cupboard and all these funky details, probably. 

  
▲ ▲ ▲ 

Slytherin is by no means the easiest house. Snape is aware—he is also well versed in the whole rivalry turned bullying and being an utter prick for over twenty years in return, these things sort of go together—he cannot control most of what happens to his students. His plan was to dismiss Potter as an abomination, to treat him as lowly as his father as done—glossing over the fact that James made an attempt to apologize during their seventh year, but by then he was already on the path to one mistake after another and neither of them sounded sincere unless they were insulting each other.

The thing is, Snape had a plan, it was vicious and unfair, and Gabriel Dursley ruined it.

Him and an array of pathetic Defence professors who keep on getting killed or retired by force. 

Either way, Snape now has a student who was raised by muggles and not pureblood relatives—whomst are in fact, mostly dead, now that he thinks about it—and whose mother is no other that the girl who once grabbed his hair and shoved his face into a mud puddle for insulting her when she was ten. 

Interesting. 

He thought he would never have to correspond with her in regard to Gabriel's existence, as he was supposed to be a Gryffindor. And, it's true that the previous year he did overlook the boy and his friends to avoid anything related to him. 

He couldn't have planned that the child would be lured into a near death experience. Oh, well he should have, considering Dumbledore found the school so convenient to hide a relic capable of putting them in danger.

Pouring himself a drink, another cup of tea really, albeit with a lick of alcohol in it, Snape wonders how to write to each family without causing an uproar. 

That's the problem with Slytherin, the students carry too much on their shoulders and he cannot intervene beyond these walls—he'd rather have ten muggleborns like Dan, as Slytherin-related bullying is manageable, than one Nott. Oh Merlin, Nott. His father is going to blame his son no matter what he writes—he can do damage control, but he saw the signs in the child earlier. 

To be fair, he also noticed in class, but inviting Nott for tea and counseling the year before proved to be highly inefficient as the boy merely treated it as a test of wits. And Nott is talented at that kind of 'game'. 

And he might not have tried enough. Snape has no sweet words or warm biscuits to give his students. Merely warnings and pointers—he has never been suited to teach, even less to care for a whole house. Yet, here he is, holding a teacup in one hand, and the future of children in the other.

Terrible, truly. 

Writing to the Weasleys is smooth, as he had to report more or less every single one of Molly' sons to her. At least once. The thought of Charlie Weasley—a disaster more potent like Longbottom—is enough to make him add another lick of firewhiskey into his teacup. The twins do not melt their cauldrons at least. In fact, they enjoy being challenged, and surprisingly enough, to be put against each other rather than together in his class.

(Also he has to keep them on opposite sides of the classroom so they don't share too-knowing looks and then blow something up for the sheer fun of it.) 

He sends a short message to the Dursleys, which will have to be delivered by owl. Unfortunate. There is a problem in what the boy said. Dobby, if he recalls correctly, is a house-elf from House Malfoy, which is in itself the sign of a greater scheme he'd rather avoid thinking about. 

But then, how could they have a normal year when the new Defence teacher appears as annoying as his predecessor? What is even a normal year, by Hogwarts' standards? Snape sighs, quill in hand, and he tells Petunia that Gabriel is fine. He leaves details for another time, and anyway, if she truly comes with her aggravating voice to complain to the headmaster, he'd be delighted to watch. 

He tells Theodore's father that there was a mishap at the station, and his son took initiative and solved it on his own by taking the bus. That won't be enough. 

(With some parents, it never is.) 

How he dreads the whole communication business. Alas, he also loathes the feast but he has to go or else he'll be late to see Weasley  _ number-he-doesn't-keep-count _ get sorted. 

  
▲ ▲ ▲ 

Ginny Weasley has an awkward train ride. Probably due to the fact her favorite brother is nowhere to be found—she fully intends on stealing his kneecaps later for that—and she is sitting among complete strangers. 

Outside of, as odd as it seems, Pansy Parkinson. Who is currently painting her nails green. There must be a subliminal message hidden somewhere.

"Do you think he missed the train?" 

"Unlikely," Pansy frowns while holding her hand firmly, "That's a level of mediocrity only Crabbe and Goyle could achieve. Or Longbottom." 

Ginny, who doesn't know who these people are either, doesn't know what to say. Luna is also missing, which is a lot more common, and she supposes her friend will reappear randomly at some point. 

A boy, Leo, is asleep in front of her, spreading on three seats without any care, elbowing his brother, Blaise, in the stomach as he is half sleeping on him. Andshe learns that he is a pureblood, but a bastard so not very important, from Pansy. 

She is truly mean, which might be how she is naturally—Ginny found her quite nice actually, when they met the first time—or because she caught a glimpse of a group of girls, with green ties, giggling together happily earlier. Either way, Ginny thinks that Pansy has done nothing to her or her brother, therefore she is fine. 

The other girl is too, Hermione. A tad obsessed on homework and what they'll learn, yet willing to hear her recite the rules of Quidditch for twenty minutes. Also her black hair is tied into two stunning buns on the top of her head and it's very cool. Ginny doesn't have the right hair texture for that, which doesn't stop her from enjoying how good it looks on others.

It's funny (in fact it's not), because people assume she must be a spoiled kid as the sole girl, and that her mom probably spends hours brushing her hair and putting her in dresses—truth be told she learned to braid hair by practicing on Bill and Charlie. And she absolutely loves looking at expensive robes in catalogues, but not wearing them (they are so pretty though—).

That would put a dent in the family finances, and also she'd rather save for a broom. A great model, enough to impress these idiots who don't think she knows all the selection of the main teams from Britain by heart. 

Ginny Weasley is, in essence, in love with Quidditch.

And video games—also her mom's cooking, and perhaps her collection of mismatched chess pieces she got from her brothers' old sets. She lacks the patience for chess, as she is, apparently, too offensive and not thinking about defending her pieces. 

That's cool, she has other talents. 

She's an average kid, that's how she sees herself and it's good enough. 

"Can you believe that we have Lockhart this year? Someone famous as our teacher?" Hermione is gushing a bit, holding what appears to be a book signed by the man himself.

"My mother met him once, she called him charming," Blaise replies while making an attempt at pushing his sleeping brother away from him, which doesn't work, "I think we can agree no teacher can be worse than Quirrell anyway." 

"Don't jinx this for everyone, Zabini." 

Ginny smiles, shyness slowly fading. That's a lively bunch, a good reminder of home. She promised to write to her muggle friends too, and that meant explaining how to mail things the muggle way to her mother. Fun times. 

They don't mention houses or anything during the trip, as if they didn't care that much in the end. 

Maybe that's the case, or they also don't want to jinx that. 

  
  


Either way, Ginny gets off the train with nails perfectly painted, and sugar quills in her pockets, courtesy of Blaise. 

Even Leonis, who is in a foul mood upon being woken up—might be because Blaise manages to push him on the floor—takes her aside, cold fingers against her wrist for one second. 

"You're going to have a boat ride to the castle, so you won't come with us. We'll be in the Great Hall though. Keeping an eye on you~" 

She supposes that's meant to be a proof of support. Ron told her about the boats anyway. 

Hermione interrupts them. 

"I've been wondering, how did you fare so well during the ride last year? With your—you know." 

"One calming draught, or two—I don't remember"

Hermione nods slowly at the answer, clenching her book closer to her chest. 

"That's a lot." 

"So is my phobia, Granger," he sticks his tongue out at her, before wandering away from the platform while reciting the ingredients out loud, scaring a bunch of older students who are in his way. 

Ginny hears  _ crocodile heart _ and  _ lavender _ before being ushered alongside the remaining first years to the boats.

  
  


Her absolute shithead of a brother—who abandoned her during the train ride—magically appears in the Great Hall, waving at her while she pretends not to know him. Out of fairness, she also ignores Fred and George shouting 'that' s our sister' as if that wasn't obvious.

Being called Weasley makes the whole affair awfully long. She is the last student to be sorted, and she ends up playing rock paper scissors with a bunch of Hufflepuff students next to her as she makes her way forward. 

Ginny has lost three rounds in a row when her name is finally said. 

She strolls underneath the hat, tugging it down on her head so it can't simply shout something without taking a proper look at her mind. 

Bill, Charlie, and Fred bet on Gryffindor, Ron and George on Slytherin, and Percy, that absolute disaster, on Ravenclaw. She'd love to end up in Hufflepuff, just to prove a point. Although being alone wouldn't feel as good. 

  
  


"SLYTHERIN." 

She's shaking with laughter at Fred's offended expression while George waves at her, joining Ron at his table. 

"Where were you, jerk?" 

"You wouldn't believe what I went through to see you get sorted!" 

"That better be good," she teases, wrapping an arm around his shoulder, "Your friends are okay though." 

"We are delighted to hear that," one of said friends replies, and she just laughs harder. 

Finally, she's at Hogwarts. 

  
  



	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the kudos and comments!   
> So, second year is not the one I planned a lot for—although I have a couple or changes and twists here and there. I had to open the wiki to read the complete plot of the book, as I keep on forgetting details. Giant snake incoming, I guess!

Hermione is going through a flurry of emotions, when Defence starts. The professor should be competent—after all, it's impossible for the school board to mess up twice in a row—she's so convinced of that, hanging to this frail hope, only for it to be crushed within minutes. For someone who wrote books, tales she found solace in, toes curled in delight, laying on her bed, eyes roaming over one page after another, Lockhart is mediocre.

No, scratch that. He is the kind of adult she spent her childhood running from; kind as long as there is company, then dismissing her as soon as they are alone. Pretty robes basked in gold, hair perfectly brushed, and nothing but empty words. 

She fills the quiz on autopilot, certain to be right for every single answer. Hermione has always been talented at vomiting words learned by heart, at reading the same pages over and over for the sheer amusement it brings her. Teacher's pet, her classmates openly called her, and she wanted to bare her teeth at them, to throw books and let everything out. Instead, she sat alone, lunches hidden in the school's library, compassion or pity from the woman in charge. 

Lockhart doesn't offer meaningful advice, he only forces them to show what he craves to see. Ah, she is a bit cynical, with her green tie and friendship bracelet loosely hanging off her wrist—made of silver, with two snakes entwined, a gift from Pansy who claimed it would be better than whatever muggle nonsense she had in stock. Funnily enough, Pansy does wear the one she got her kinda as a joke—fearing rejection once more—little teddy bears on a fake silver chain, alongside the matching snakes one. Hermione turns around, quiz handed back already, to stare at her best friend for anything.

Support, she'd like to say, as it's what you expect from friends. Still, the title, their bond, she is walking on eggshells at times. Pureblood rules in the way, an inevitable demise awaiting for them. Pansy has secrets engraved onto her tongue, and Hermione isn't certain of how long she can refrain from spitting them back on the Parkinson's dinner table.

Pansy, when she's alright, viper blood in her veins making her so strong—Hermione struggling to keep the pace, to be as confident—she gives her grins which mean the world. Right now, all the girl gets is her friend slouched on her chair, quill twirling between her fingers.

"So, what was the answer to question twenty-seven?" Pansy asks her, as if that mattered.

"Occamy egg yolk shampoo, that's the name of the product he invented," she narrows her eyes, wondering where she even got that bit of information, was it in his biography? Why did she even buy it?

At least she did not get a signed copy, that would have been embarrassing. On paper, he seemed so—dreamy? Reliable. And now, she finds herself doubting that first impression.

" _ Admirable, you know how to read _ ," 

Weasley offers by her side, and she would be offended, hadn't he decided to imitate Snape's voice. A poor performance although it causes Pansy to snicker, and Hermione gets dragged into it, as usual.

"Come on, I wanted to know what I was getting into."

"Oh well, the position is jinxed, so I guess we should get used to six more years of this bullshit."

"How encouraging, Weasley."

"Hey, at least I didn't say we would die before seventh year, so—"

Hermione listens, finding some of her spark returning. Magic is a core inside of her body, something she can feel although it's hidden deep underneath bones and organs. She enjoys visualizing electricity running through her veins by closing her eyes, picturing a complicated pattern following her limbs until she is radiating.

That helps to pass time until Lockhart calls her out for being such a diligent student who deserves ten points for studying his glorious life.

And then, casually, he unleashes pixies on them. Cornish pixies to be exact. 

Hermione, who has not read every available book on wizardry, much to her chagrin, learns that crucial detail from their professor. 

Ron is faster than any of them, ducking underneath his desk, which causes the pixies to go for another victim. On the bright side, said victim isn't Hermione, who is dragged on the ground by Pansy.

Fingers are rough against the inside of her wrist, and she lets out a muffled sound until she is free.

Touch isn't always unwanted, right now though, it's akin to being covered in something unpleasant and she rubs her hand against her robes. After one year of sharing a bedroom, Pansy has better things to do than to get angry about that detail. Especially when there is a perfectly incompetent professor running out of the room and telling them to deal with—

Oh. 

Hermione has the vivid—forever imprinted against her eyelids, each night when she climbs into bed—memory of a boy pushing her chair over and over until she crashed on the floor. And they both got punished equally for disrupting class, the teacher refusing to care about her words. 

Knees against her chest, Hermione tries to forget how it feels, to be abandoned by an adult after another. It's everywhere inside her brain though, the constant sound from the pixies drowning any attempt at focusing on something else.

"Granger, get a grip," someone says, and she opens her eyes, wondering when she closed them, to find Pansy in front of her, deep frown twisting her face, "he locked us with the pixies, the imbecile."

The classroom is mostly empty, most students having been clever enough to flee right away, sensing the situation going out of control before she did. Ronald, still under his desk too, crawls to them, pixies grabbing his hair and scratching his face a bit. 

They drag him close, at least Pansy does, Hermione still counting limbs and replacing memories in order.

"Could they bloody stop going everywhere at once?" 

"Oh yes, we shall ask for them to do that, thank you Weasley." 

"If you have a greater idea, tell the class, or whatever's left of it anyway." 

There are scattered students underneath their desks although she cannot make out their faces. Swallowing harshly, Hermione tries to find her voice again, right as a spell flies above their desk.

Gabriel, back to back with Blaise, are doing their best to stun the pixies one after another, and they should go the same to round them up. Although that would take an eternity. Most of their attacks fall short anyway, hitting framed pictures of Lockhart and knocking them on the ground.

She can hear the man shouting behind the closed door, and that's on him for not even helping. 

"Immo-Immobulus!" she manages to say, taking her wand out, "that's a freezing charm which would work on a couple of pixies at once. We could try." 

What if they laugh? Why is it always her biggest fear? Everyone gets laughed at, it's insignificant. She shouldn't be stuck into weird mementos of a past she can barely stand any longer. 

"How do we do that?" 

"That's in the textbook, for this year—" 

Pansy and Ron are both staring, sort of hard, and there is blood on Ron's forehead—not her fault, she reminds herself, grasping her wand tighter. They haven't read the textbook yet, that's fine. She has, and thus, she can do it.

"Point at them and shout Immobulus," she instructs, slowly emerging from the hideout. 

Hermione repeats the explanation to Blaise and Gabriel, shouting to be heard. 

That's her voice, she'll use it, even if it bothers adults around her. It's the strength deep inside her lungs and she casts the spell without hesitation, ignoring pixies tugging at her robes to stop her.

Together, they are invincible, if only for a couple of minutes, time frozen as they grab the frozen pixies to throw them back into their cage—nobody should be there, these creatures wouldn't have attacked had they been left alone, right? Ah, Hermione isn't certain. It's better to think so, and to regroup with her friends. 

  
  


"In his place, I'd be mortified," Blaise comments when they sit in the infirmary not long after, narrating the story to Leonis, "he did award points, which felt like a travesty considering we could have died."

"Really?" 

"You weren't there mate, these things are vicious," Ron groans, scratches long erased by a potion, "I heard a student got one inside his pants. Or that was a weird metaphor—" 

"Stop. You're way too embarrassing," she hides her face in her hands, "it's true that the whole ordeal was dangerous. And it's only the first week." 

"Exactly on the day my body picks to be a prick too, to think I missed that. Will my heart recover?" 

Pansy shoves a pillow in Leonis' face so he can refrain from spilling whatever nonsense he has left. Which is fine, as long as the nurse doesn't see them bantering like that. If they can eat dinner on their own in the kitchens rather than with everyone, that'd be nice. 

Hermione remains—ah, she isn't certain, her mind feels like gelatin. By her side on the bed, Gabriel asks silently if she's okay, to which she replies with a weak smile. 

Friends. Her friends. 

"Mione sure showed us why we should have read the Charms textbook though."

She flinches. 

"I always do that with all my books, it's simply—a habit." 

"Hey, I wasn't insulting you, on the contrary." 

"Oh, I'm... Tired."

"Can tell. That's fine." 

Ron is easy to distract, or to make amends with. Hermione is glad their usual bickering is never more than something which can be corrected by an explanation from either side. She wouldn't appreciate having friends she'd have to defend herself against all the time.

"Lockhart's class is going to be a chore," she laments. She hyped herself up only to be disappointed once more. What a sick joke. She can't stand authority figures who toy with her heart carelessly, "day one and he proved he has no regard for our safety." 

"Possessed by That guy, you think?" 

They all turn their heads towards Gabriel, who said that so naturally it takes them a while to recover. 

"I'm not dealing with another anticlimactic end of the year, I'm warning all of you." 

"Parkinson, you didn't even come last time." 

"I did see your bod—the cave. Which was enough, Zabini." 

At the mention of the place they went through hell the previous year, Leonis blanches, ignoring his brother and Pansy talking about Lockhart and his foolishness. 

"Probably not possessed anyway, what are the odds?" Gabriel offers, which doesn't appear to do much for Leonis' emotions regarding caves and water in general. 

  
  


Later that week, unable to sleep, Hermione slithers into the common room. Fuzzy socks are perfect to glide onto cold tiles, which is great when nobody is around that late to scold her. She has learned that prefects are mostly studying when they hang here at night, and usually as long as she is silent, they have nothing to say about her presence. 

Once or twice, she crossed paths with Hyun-Soo, filling music sheets only to throw them into the fireplace for being unsatisfactory. She watched the flames lick at paper, slowly burning the corners and then engulfing the whole thing. 

"Ron?" 

The boy blinks at her, expression laced with sleep. 

"Oh hey, wanna sit down?" 

He's on the rug, and after a short-lived hesitation, she joins him. The fire crackles gently in front of them, and she peeks a bit to see what he's doing. Writing something down? 

"Homework?" 

She can help with that, and most of their classes, as long as it's not Flying. Oh how glad she is they won't have that class any longer. It was dreadful. 

"Sort of. Taking notes about stuff. Whatever, want me to grab a chess board so we can play? Since you can't sleep either." 

"Sure!" 

He started to teach her, bit by bit, the previous year. She has an aversion regarding the pieces slaughtering each other, which put on a damper on the lessons. But, right now, it doesn't matter. That'll empty her mind just enough. 

"I'm not going easy on you, although," he yawns, loud enough for a prefect to cough, "sorry! Like I was saying, I'm tired so you get a bit of an advantage." 

"I'm not certain I'll ever get to beat you, to be honest." 

The words turn Ron's ears pink at the top, while he mumbles about needing to find that chess set now. He returns from his room not long after, pieces in a pouch embroidered with knights and dragons. 

As they sit in front of each other, flames illuminating the board, Ron rubs the back of his neck. 

"By the way... Thanks for what you did with the pixies on Monday. I—couldn't do much," he recalls how many of his spells failed to reach their target.

"That's okay, you were helpful!" 

"If you say so..." 

"I promise, Ron," and to think she is the one struggling to believe in herself. Greatness is hard to reach, Slytherin or not, they have to build it brick by brick, like a house inside which they'd feel safe, "apparently he didn't try this trick with any other class."

"My brothers would have—probably caused even more chaos on purpose. Not Percy, only the twins. Percy's would have straight up filled a report and sent it Dumbledore though." 

"We can do that?!" 

"Not really. It's not official or anything. Percy finds that a letter is a good way to get a point across. We had a cousin who kept on insulting—one of us—at family gatherings. He sent her a howler every day for one week until she got the message." 

"Did it work?" 

"Yep, Percy's cool, a shame that he has to speak and ruin that impression."

She doesn't truly get what Ron is trying to say, perhaps because she has no sibling on her own. She likes his style though. Howlers aren't unknown to Hermione, due to one being dropped right in front of Nott the morning after their little bus trip.

She ignores who sent a burning spell straight for it after only a couple of words. 

Probably a prefect. Theodore has been a silent shadow filled with off-putting smiles and casual cruelty since then.

And they don't speak about it. 

That's not truly their place, isn't it? As Hermione watches her knight being beheaded, the piece crumbling, she wonders if they aren't as bad as adults sometimes. Struggling to make choices. 

"I'd like to talk to Percy about going against morally corrupt institutions, I think." That's a joke, although she has a lot of ideas to improve the school. "How did your family react to Ginny' sorting? You haven't told us." 

"Oh, fairly well! After me dropping the bombshell on them last year, it was a lot easier. It's nice to have her around." 

"She's part of our group," Hermione asserts, putting an emphasis on the last word. They're a team, one which will make it. 

No doubt is allowed.

Even as she loses every time at chess, her moves get trickier, strategy becoming clearer. That means she's on the right path. 

  
  


("Is that a diary?"

They're on their way to bed, when she notices what he was writing in earlier. 

"Oh yeah, Gin' found it in her things, probably a gift from mom. She doesn't need it so it's mine now. Sibling stuff.") 

  
▲ ▲ ▲

"We ought to have a conversation, at some point. Sooner than later would probably be wise." 

Leonis looks at his brother for four seconds before throwing his hands in the air in frustration. 

"Now is not the time—" 

"I assure you, it should be." 

"Mr. Zabini, I do appreciate you standing for your brother, although perhaps that's not the ideal moment to do so."

The whole classroom is absolutely silent, outside of Longbottom repeating his spell for the tenth time in a row with only below average results, and a displeased tea pot with spikes and a hedgehog's head on top. Blaise has to admire his ability to ignore everything else to focus on his studies, couldn't be him.

Back to the topic at hand, he is sitting on Leonis' desk—Blaise does enjoy stepping inside people' space to get their attention, or simply to be a bother—the latter glaring at McGonagall as if none of this mess was his fault. 

For once, perhaps it's not. 

He falls back against his chair with a short groan, the absolutely-perfect-that's-fucking-grand teapot still on the desk. 

"I must admit, a second year doing wandless magic is impressive," that's a light word for 'I will go to reflect in my office for the next five hours if anybody needs me' in Blaise's opinion. 

Nobody cares about it, that seems to be a fact. He is aware that Leonis can do wandless magic—although for the wrong reasons, such as pissing off his brother during their Summer lessons and almost getting blasted out of a window for it. Ironically, that's how one of his step-dads met his demise.

We do not mention that detail, obviously. 

Right now, he guesses that Leonis got frustrated, and simply—gestured wildly as he does sometimes, a hint of rage in his body, and bam that served as a conductor when he repeated the right words. 

That tends to happen—Leonis' magic being a force to be reckoned with, pulsing and crawling underneath his skin; controlled by stubbornness and a frail disposition. 

"Since when have you been capable of such display?" 

"Summer."

Blaise doesn't react to the obvious lie, gaze focused on his sibling. That would be a shame, to get him into more trouble. McGonagall is strict to a fault, and she probably intends on giving him more homework from now on. He is certain that Leonis has caught up on that already, hence his foul mood. That, or because he loathes being the center of attention when he doesn't mean to be. 

"It happens, okay? Sometimes my wand feels like—it's in the way. Rather than a conductor, it restrains my magic, somehow."

"I see, meet me after class. And Mr. Zabini, get off your brother's desk in that instant." 

"My apologies," he grins. 

Hermione is going to bring back five books on wandless magic from the library right after dinner, he's certain of it. 

  
  


He has to wait for forty minutes until Leonis is released, his brother almost slamming into him as he is finally free. 

"Why are you still there?" 

"Thank you for waiting for me, Blaise, you are such a fantastic brother~" 

"Fuck you." 

Leonis doesn't run away though. Instead, they walk outside together, windy air of October getting underneath their coats and scarves. They avoid the lake, for obvious reasons, and for a moment, Blaise wonders if Leonis is going to say something, until his brother finally stops walking. 

Sometimes, when he looks at Leonis, twelve and shorter than him, he sees—the shadow of someone different in dark eyes. Akin to a memory resurfacing against his brother's will. 

"This is bullshit—" he roars, crouching down so his hands can rip chunks of grass off the ground, throwing them into the air. 

Blaise supposes it's better than Leonis throwing them at his face.

"Now she won't leave me the bloody hell alone, that old hag." 

"You don't even enjoy Transfiguration that much." 

"Because I'm not you. I don't find that pleasant to twist things together until I create some monstrosity."

"Looking into a mirror must be way more efficient, I agree."

Pushing onto weak legs, Leonis gets up, dirt against his palms, and rage inside his bones. 

"Shut the fuck up," all pretenses of good pureblood child long gone, Leonis grabs his collar, tugging him down, "I didn't ask for any of this."

"Neither did I." 

The crucial detail here is that Blaise guesses neither knows exactly what the other is trying to convey; they are both absolute idiots when they wish to be. That's the Zabini way, probably. He loves this brother who shouldn't be there, anomaly in the grand scheme of things.

"Would you mind letting go of me?" 

"I'm that close to throwing you in the Forbidden Forest for being a nuisance actually."

And they smile—too many teeth showing, fierce gazes challenging each other. 

"You wouldn't be able to drag me that far." 

"Don't push your luck."

Leonis relents his grip anyway, ruffling black locks with a hint of anger underlying the gesture. Ah, wandless magic is impressive, for sure. It doesn't mean it's the end of the world. Blaise has questions he has never bothered to ask, when his mother introduced a small child to him, claiming they were brothers. 

"Considering our track record on foolish decisions I'm surprised we haven't ventured in the Forbidden Forest until now." 

"Parkinson is right, you love to jinx perfectly good school years for fun, don't you?" 

"How dare you to assume such thing—or that our life here could be peaceful in the first place." 

They walk back to the castle while insulting each other through smiles and twisted jabs, as it is commonplace for them.

Whatever Leonis' reaction in class was a tiresome display of misplaced anger or not is behind them already. That's how it is, they focus on greater goals, such as their next Potions class and how his adorable little brother will sit next to Neville and force the kid to actually pull his weight. 

  
  


This year, Blaise abandons Dursley—a mutual arrangement, in fact, they want to spice things up, to expand their horizons—for another Potions partner. He didn't do it right away, he had to talk with the previous one first. Most students, too content to follow old habits, remain with the same person as before. Which is quite boring, if you ask Blaise. 

Malfoy and Weasley stick together for obscure reasons they do not bother sharing. Snape stares at them, as if one intended on basking the other on the head with his mortar—and then he walks to the next pair because that's above his pay grade.

Weasley is polite enough to only step on Malfoy's foot when he gets into his face for cutting things badly, and in return, Malfoy keeps the blood traitor remarks to a minimum.

Blaise would love to know the story behind that unlikely partnership, although that'll have to wait. 

His brother insists to be at the front, with Longbottom, and there is more tension than during the dramatic Italian movies her mother likes to watch on a weird muggle television she bought on a whim. 

Perhaps he should remind Leo not to gesture widely with a knife at the person he's working with. 

Granger and Dursley appear to have a delightful time together, the former's thirst for knowledge channeled by Dursley's calmer demeanor. 

Parkinson works with a Gryffindor named Parvati Patil, which also leaves Snape in a state of dismay at this weird cohabitation fad his students appear to have adopted. 

Blaise recalls, faintly, Parkinson mentioning knowing one of the Gryffindor girls due to their families. 

Still, he is surprised Pansy gets along with other human beings without looking like she ate a lemon whole. 

Good for her. 

"Are you going to work, or not?" 

Theodore Nott, long hair still not tied—a walking death wish, as Snape puts it, although he has given up on removing points for it—one elbow against their work station as he awaits for an answer. 

"You seemed to have it covered." 

Or, more exactly, Nott took the knife from his hand within five minutes of them becoming partners—whoever was with him before apparently didn't enjoy the experience and was eager to move to someone else—and processed to chop whatever part of a rat body they are working with. A bit too enthusiastic about the whole thing to Blaise's liking. 

Well, some have Quidditch to vent, Nott apparently likes pointy objects and slamming them against things. He should introduce him to his brother, that's one thing they have in common. Hermione too, with the kit they offered her, not that Nott is keen on retaining horrible things from his lips with muggleborns, and that wouldn't do. 

Nott has avoided saying anything during detention with Weasley and Dursley, and since the howler accident he seems to appreciate being left alone, thank you very much. 

"I always do." 

The thing is, Nott doesn't do or accept comfort. He barely passes at minimal socialization, one insult to confirm Malfoy's bigotry here and there, eyes rolled at a teacher giving more homework than they should have, and that's all. Thus, he won't open up. 

Blaise twirls the potion while ignoring how the boy is following his moves with narrowed eyes. Once again the lack of trust is to be expected. 

It does hurt a little nonetheless. 

Blaise might not be the greatest person around in terms of friendship—he did face the Dark Lord to save his friends the year prior, which is a feat, and also almost caused him to die, which is less cool—although he cares sometimes. 

About Theodore. Not on a greater scale. 

  
  


(See, the thing is Leonis snarls at pureblood's ideals one per week, and it's vicious and bloody cruel at times, tongue and teeth ripping centuries of traditions apart. Apparently, Longbottom's family found enlightening to throw him off a window as a kid so his magic would save him, which is not normal, judging by the horror on Dursley and Granger's face. 

Longbottom believes it was for his own good, and thus is uncomfortable when someone mentions it. 

While Blaise finds a lot of details about being a pureblood enjoyable, he has to admit that some things are messed up. 

Unrelated, but his mother cannot stand anybody from Longbottom's family.) 

  
  


It's no secret—to the pureblood bunch—that Nott senior isn't exactly a model at child raising. Blaise had a couple of play dates with Theodore as a child, many of them a dull affair, before his mother decided there was no more time for those. They got Leonis not long after, which only solidified that decision. 

His brother isn't quite the easiest to get along with, or to dress up so he can appear like a little lord. 

Maybe there is nothing wrong with Theodore—more than the usual creepiness—and he's worrying for nothing. Dursley seemed to think otherwise though; it's an excuse for Blaise to hang with an old friend he has barely talked to since they started Hogwarts. 

As Nott turns around, slapping him in the shoulder with his hair in the process, Blaise tries to tell himself it's a bright idea. Just one who will take time to produce results 

"So, who are you sharing your room with this year?" 

"No one," Nott replies, voice flat, "Malfoy filled a form to be alone." 

Somehow, Blaise thinks that filling a form means wailing to his father about his need for space. Which is overall the same thing.

"You don't mind?" 

"No."

And that's an excellent conversation which ends there. He would appreciate being able to talk to the other without feeling like he's pulling on rotten teeth, but alas he can't always get what he wants. 

  
  


(On their way to the next class Dursley asks if they heard hissing too. 

Blaise feels uneasy without being certain of why.) 


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I'm just making up lore for fun. Also will Drac manage to become the group's friend? I hope so but who knows

Ginny doesn't go to tryouts.

She's, after all, a first year, and it would be embarrassing to be told to back off in front of everybody. 

She comes to watch practice the following weeks though, often going through magazines or newspapers with sharp scissors as she sits there. She likes to collect clips about her favorite teams, or simply to cut out sales or new information on equipment. It's hard work, and she has a folder filed with those, an always expanding collection of what she cannot have yet.

One day.

When the weather is kind enough, unlike today, she is surrounded by members of her house, some fans of the game, others attracted to players basking in that meager celebrity. Courtesy of Malfoy, the new brooms are an obvious asset, although Ginevra strongly believes it's a stupid move.

Getting everyone the same model? Why? The Nimbus 2001 isn't all-rounded—it is built for speed and flexibility, and while it has great reviews, and is on board to become a long time favorite for many teams, it shouldn't be used by everyone. For seekers and chasers, sure, it's a formidable ally. Beaters and keepers should go with a less flexible choice with more power and control. That's, obviously, her opinion and while she is fairly vocal about it, Ginny is aware she tends to be stubborn to a fault.

Still. 

Rich kids always think that the price of something is equal to its value. And the Nimbus 2001 is among the most expensive brooms available right now. 

"Weasley, spying on us for Gryffindor again?" 

Flint isn't at the top of her list of favorite people either. She slams the folder closed, glue still sticking to her fingers, and scissors laying on the bench next to her.

"I do not spy, I watch. And frankly, I'm not impressed." 

She should keep her tongue in check, as a blood traitor in the house of snakes. She doesn't think it would make the next seven years pleasant. At best, she would endure, hoping to disappear. And Ginevra has higher aspirations. 

(Such as having friends in her year, outside of Luna, which is mission impossible right now.

She barely talks with the girl sharing her room, as she avoids her like the plague.) 

"If all else fails, just ram into an opponent, you said. Which kind of tactic is that?" 

Flint is rough; strong grip on his broom or people's hands, refusing to let go first. He's also running on caffeine and a lack of sleep at any given time because of how invested in everything he is, for what she's heard. 

"The kind which helps us to win," he leans against his broom, firmly pressed against the ground, "As if your brothers weren't keen on breaking bones either."

It's Hogwarts. Magic can cure most ailments, so who cares? Ginny has little to say to defend her siblings. The twins are a force of nature, a tornado sometimes leaving ruins behind them. And she loves them for it, for how unapologetic they are about themselves, this bond they have. She has something similar with Ron, at least she had before, now she isn't sure anymore. 

(One year is an eternity.)

"At least they can understand basic strategy, are your players below that?" 

"Oh, you think you can simply sit there and judge everyone?" 

"I don't respect people's agency if I don't like it, that's how I am," she hates how unsteady her voice is starting to be, strength wavering, "Aren't you the same?" 

She stays anyway. 

That's not too hard, when her knees are trembling and she is afraid of dropping the folder while fleeing. For a moment, Flint seems to be busy judging her, but then, rather than banishing her from coming to watch practice he lifts his broom, holding it against his shoulders.

"You're welcome to come for tryouts next year, if you think you can do better." 

"I will. I definitely will. Did you accept Malfoy only for the brooms?" 

She gets the temptation to allow people to dictate her existence if she can get more than hand-me-downs and things which belonged to somebody else. That doesn't mean she'd crave.

"The kid was on a broom at four, and got a tutor at six, he's better than half of the team." 

He's also the boy who insulted everything about her when they met in Diagon Alley. 

"If I join next year, I won't use a Nimbus 2001." 

"I'm sure you have a myriad of much better brooms at home, Weasley." 

"It's not about that—about money, and Malfoy being my enemy," he's not, they are just kids dragged in their parents' feud and she doesn't think it's what they deserve, "Nimbus 2001 is only unmatched in speed, which is great, yeah. But—it's not fit for every position."

"Oh, so you're not only here to insult us, you actually studied the whole thing? Color me shocked," he walks to the bench, sitting next to her, broom on his lap. What a beautiful work of art, although she doesn't want it. "There is a huge advantage in using it nonetheless, our old brooms were starting to be rusty. And better a remplacement which is beneficial for everyone to some degree than nothing."

"I get that."

"Finally something intelligent coming from you," he hands her the scissors he almost sat on, and she wonders if he is inviting her to stab him or if he is simply that arrogant.

Definitely the second thing. 

"Which broom do you have your eyes on?" 

"A Constellation," the company is more of a small independent group of retired Quidditch players. Ginny found them by accident, while browsing the second-hand broom shop, and since then, she has decided she ought to own one. 

"Well, they do have fine models, a shame they are so specialized for each position, and Quidditch in general. You won't see them in a regular store."

Ginny opens the folder on her lap, showing the upcoming collection of four brooms coming out in June. "Once these replace their old ones, there will be an important sale. You can't truly get them second hand, or rather you should not, since they are calibrated for their owner, although they will offer this service during the sale for free for every old model." 

"You've truly thought about it for a long time." 

"Two years." 

Flint, a hand in front of misaligned teeth to hide his smirk, seems to realize how serious she is about the whole affair. He makes an agreeing noise which sounds a lot like a grunt. 

"Get on the team, that'd be a waste to see such motivation wasted, cut down the attitude before then. A bit of advice though, no need to freeze your ass off every Saturday to watch us. We have a routine you probably know by now—and it's early in the year, so our strategy is sort of incoherent at times."

"Like when Dan kicked someone's broom to send them into another player?" 

Flint doesn't look as amused as she is. Which is odd, since he is the one who shouted about playing dirty to ensure a victory three times during training. 

"You don't need to come all the time, that's all."

"Duly noted, captain." 

"You're way too early for this, Weasley."

Soon, she'll be the one flying higher than anybody else, he only has to wait for a bit. 

  
▲ ▲ ▲

Gabriel continues to hear hissing—it's ominous, reminding him of a foreign language he has a vague knowledge of, and sometimes he is certain that he understands words. Coming from inside the walls, yep. 

Needless to see, after the fiasco of first year, he allows himself to be concerned to a responsible level.

Which includes barging inside Snape's office on a Sunday morning at ten, wearing a sweatshirt which might be Leonis'. It was on the armchair in his room, and Blaise probably took it from his brother, only for Gabriel to do the same. Knowing them, it wouldn't be a surprise if Hermione is wearing it by the end of next week. 

"Professor, I—" 

Snape, a mug with 'Fucking AcceptableTeacher' on it in one hand and slippers on his feet, definitely on his way towards his desk, looks at him as if he was an unwanted guest in his house. 

Which might be the case. 

Gabriel pushes his glasses up, considering turning around and trying again at a more acceptable time. 

They both know there'll never be a great moment for a teacher-student counseling session between them. 

"Great mug," he offers, and he is certain that Snape, while sipping on his drink slowly, is going to use his body as Potions ingredients for next class, "can I speak with you about something?" 

Up to that point, the whole communication thing with teachers hasn't been a great success—in retrospect they have avoided it due to reasons which definitely make sense when you're twelve. 

Snape doesn't even offer him tea, or whatever he's drinking. He does gesture towards a chair though, and that's good enough for Gabriel. 

He is also certain that one of the plants on the wall is slowly creeping closer by sliding against the stone, which is a bit ridiculous. But also it does match the description of a plant who likes to strangle humans in their sleep that he saw in one of Blaise's books, so there is that. 

( _Magic_ , his mother would say, revulsed. 

Yeah, maybe he can see her point.) 

"I will not hesitate to give out more detention than what you've already earned this year if you have gotten into something dangerous."

Gabriel believes that Snape is trying to make him leave so he doesn't have to deal with whatever happened. Which is not acceptable. He even consulted the others before coming, getting various concerned glances and Hermione making him promise to be safe. 

"I don't think I have, although I've started to hear something which is coming from the walls." 

"Pardon?" 

Come to think of it, Snape didn't tell him anything about the whole house-elf trying to ruin his life business. Although it has been almost two months. An update would have been nice. 

"It sounds like—hissing, mixed with a couple of weird words such as 'food' and 'cold'—honestly that's pretty bizarre, so I thought I was going to tell you."

Gabriel has low expectations for this meeting; and Snape in general. He sits there, politely, eyes on the plant which is still crawling, for a lack of better word, against the wall. And in his direction. 

Snape doesn't appear to be appealed by that detail. 

"And you thought that I could assist you?" 

"Better you first than the library—books tend to jump to conclusions really fast." Or it's Hermione. Hard to tell. 

"Could there be something in the pipes, or just—hanging inside the school?"

There is a pause, during which Snape seems to contemplate the meaning of life, what he does each time Gaby is in his office apparently. 

"That's unlikely, albeit not impossible. I'll look into it." 

In the midst of the awkwardness, Gabriel takes the words as his cue to leave, like the previous time. 

  
  


Two days later, someone finds Filch's cat petrified—and no it's not Longbottom, for once—and Gabriel wonders if everything is linked. 

Perhaps he's cursed.

The goblins removed the curse in theory, so it shouldn't happen. Maybe it's just how the school is. 

Either way, he isn't a huge fan. 

  
  


Slytherin is on board with the whole heir message written in blood next to the petrified cat. Bad publicity is still publicity, or something. What happens is that some students start boasting that the heir is definitely going to save them from muggleborns and blood traitors and they should rejoice. Malfoy is especially excited, although he isn't the only one. 

It does raise the amount of supremacist bullshit roaming around. Before Hermione can lift her wand one evening, grip unsteady, a jolt of purple hits an older kid in the face, causing him to remain silent for the following minutes. 

Hyun-Soo waves at her before lowering his gaze back on his homework and that does help. 

▲ ▲ ▲

Ron, who hasn't said much in a while—they haven't truly noticed between new trips to the library, which is beginning to be their permanent hideout, and the walls painted in fresh blood, _where the fuck does it even come from_ , isn't having a great time. 

He hides it carefully, a weight hidden at the bottom of his trunk while the others talk. 

They have theories, many of them absolutely stupid. Which is comforting, because he has a vague idea of what happened, and he wants no part in being proved right. 

Anyway, he has a diary and it's great, allowing him to express emotions in a healthy way, you know? 

The small drawback is that the diary does respond. And his answers aren't always kind nor straightforward. Which is why Ron would rather ignore these insignificant details as he is head deep into a book on the history of Hogwarts. 

Coincidently, Snape happens to walk past them while they are definitely avoiding the curriculum over personal research, and he hands Gabriel a book with a bookmark sticking out exactly on the page they need. 

On the terrible side, that's not the first time something that horrific happens, on the bright side, it means that the problem was fixed at some point, right? 

Apparently not. 

Ron pretends that he's fine. It works out. 

  
  


"The Wizengamot is going to host a vote, and the Light will ruin everything again," Malfoy complains one morning, as if anybody else in their level could care about politics before eleven. Or at all. "it's for our education, we need this—" 

Ronald isn't certain of what he's talking about. Probably terrible dark things which don't concern him. 

"Because Dumbledore is the Chief Warlock you can be certain no law proposed by our side will ever win," the boy is still ranting, and Ronald wants to go back to bed. He's always so tired lately, as if he was awake at night. 

"Is the division between Light and Dark that fierce?" 

He glances at Hermione, offering a shrug in return. History of Magic is boring enough for him to listen to Malfoy, which isn't fun. 

"Definitely. Neither side can compromise for the other—" Leonis, who has moved to sit next to Hermione, replies, "Pretty standard, really. Most countries suffer from the same problem. You're either for the majority or against it."

"Which law is Malfoy ranting about?" 

"Do I look like I know?" 

Ron does. It's a silly thing, but he suddenly remembers his father mentioned it in a letter; something about dusting the Hogwarts' curriculum into something better, to catch up with their neighbors, such as France or Germany. He doesn't recall the context—sometimes his dad likes to write down his thoughts until he runs out of place, but he's always warm about it, like someone who wants to share what he is passionate about. Is the law great? Who knows. 

"Light and Dark are ideals twisted to people's convenience," Leonis reminds Hermione, and everybody else around them alongside her, "Right now the Light is predominant, thanks to Dumbledore leading the Wizengamot, thus it causes tension with the Dark side. Mostly blood purists, and old families—" He rolls his eyes, "They are all so damn stubborn about standing against each other anyway." 

Ron doesn't loathe Malfoy, although their families have this old rivalry rooted as deep as possible between them. It's how it is, that's all. He is pissed at the whole heir of Slytherin business though. 

He lifts his hands to stretch his body, their ghost of a teacher not caring much about whatever they are doing anyway. Pansy and Gabriel, one row in front of them, are currently working on homework and if Ronald wasn't busy resisting the urge to nap he would do the same. 

Blaise is flipping through a magazine once again, using an enchanted quill to take notes for him so he doesn't have to pay attention. 

"Malfoy's talking about the new—revision to Hogwarts' curriculum," he yawns mid-sentence, sluggish, "apparently it was already rejected twice, so not much hope for it." 

"You're into politics?" 

Ignoring Hermione' surprise—sometimes she is a bit hurtful without meaning to, but he forgives her—Ron shakes his head.

"Not really, my parents both have seats on the Wizengamot, so I'm informed about some of the stuff happening, you know through letters. And my dad told me it was not a bad idea, in itself, it's just that certain details are too Dark-inclined to ever pass. Like adding a class on History of Ancient Magic, which is basically like saying it's about Dark Magic to the Light."

What's ancient is messed up and dangerous, as Bill would say. With a hint of excitement, right before rushing straight into another tomb, probably. Ron shrugs with one shoulder. 

"Would we get new electives?" 

"Screw electives," Leonis cuts Hermione off, "What we need are professors who aren't fucking dead." 

"I haven't read the contents, so I don't know. Hey Malfoy." 

They both look at him as if he were putting his hand inside a mermaid' sharp mouth for fun, when Malfoy turns around. 

"Weasley." 

"You have the copy of that law you're defending?" 

"What would you need that for?" 

"We're curious? Apparently it's not a bad plan, so—" 

For one moment, he wonders if Malfoy is going to pretend he doesn't exist, not feeling like responding at all. 

"Your family won't vote in favor of it," and how he is annoyed by his Potions' partner, always so mighty, certain of being two steps ahead of everyone. 

"Actually, they were hesitant about that. I thought that if you prove it's going to help, I could write to them." 

Ronald, at times, isn't that clumsy at making things up. He isn't a dedicated writer, which is an euphemism to say he sometimes wrote only five lines to Ginny the previous year as he isn't one for that sort of correspondence. Ah, the diary mocks him for it too. 

It speaks volumes that he is willing to listen to what an enchanted diary is saying without pondering too much about it. Ah, at some point, it's going to bit ehim in the ass. 

Rubbing a freckled cheek with his palm, he has to resist the need to faceplant into the desk to rest for a while. 

Malfoy does stare for longer than what's comfortable, before retrieving a piece of parchment and handing it to him. 

"You understand that's confidential material, right?" 

Ronald has the urge to inquire why in Merlin's name Malfoy brought this to class with him then. He supposes it doesn't matter much, barely nodding before putting the parchment in front of Hermione and Leonis so they can look at it together. 

Immediately, Hermione is almost glued to it—typical bubbling interest for her, invading everything and barely leaving space for anything else in her brain. 

Half of what's written feels foreign to Ron, who opts to glance at Blaise's magazine instead—something about decorating your house to pureblood' standards, and he wonders if that armchair on page fifteen is haunted or just extremely ugly. 

For the price, it better be both. 

"That decree would add three electives, how would I pick?" 

"Hermione, we've talked about that, there is no wrong choice," Blaise reminds her without lifting his eyes. He seems enamored with a chandelier which looks like a death trap ready to fall on unwanted guests. Or step-fathers. 

"I'm aware—honestly that doesn't sound as Dark as I feared?" 

"It's the wording," Leonis explains, twirling a quill between his fingers, probably to avoid scratching his arm, "if you look at it closely, there are unsavory details. Advanced Potions and History of Ancient Magic seem tame in theory. Until a certain point." 

Without using ink, he runs his quill against the paper. 

"Potions is itself is a Dark-adjacent class, so is Potions Mastery for N.E.W.T. Advanced Potions is bound to be the same. History of Ancient Magic, you can be certain that they want a pureblood teacher appointed to show the parts of history where muggles hurt wizards and how our culture is important. Healing—ah Healing used to be truly popular around twenty years ago. A shame they removed it due to budget restrictions. Back to the point, allowing transfers is a huge step forward also, but also dangerous. It means letting homeschooled kids and foreigners come to Hogwarts. Which was banned after some American students joined the Dark side post-Hogwarts."

Realizing that people are staring—not only their friends, but also Malfoy and most of the students in the two rows in front of them, Leonis stops.

"Mate, you sure know a lot," Ron finds himself smiling, amused at Leo' sudden annoyance. 

"Go on, please," a Hufflepuff asks, having given up on listening to the lecture. 

In a way, Ron guesses that the Professor teaching them is now Zabini. Which isn't that odd—sometimes, the boy has this vacant look in his eyes that his mother has when she speaks about her lost brothers, voice never wavering as she offers little memories safely tucked for bad days—Leonis does seem older than them too. 

Almost old enough for retirement, Blaise would say after watching his brother fall asleep in their common room at eight in the evening. 

"Homeschooling until fourteen and then letting kids join Hogwarts for their exams used to be commonplace too—it was said to foster pureblood supremacy and banned. Let's be honest though, it's only because purebloods are more likely to have enough money for tutors. That system allowed courtships and a smooth sailing into the magical community, while being widely criticized by the Light. The decree doesn't mention that, which would make it be rejected right away. The drafts might have though."

Malfoy makes a face confirming that's a possibility. Outside of a couple of families, such as the Notts who are so deep into the old ways they blindly ignore everything else, Ron doubts it would have been applied nowadays. As Leonis goes on, mentioning details about what hasn't been applied in over fifty years in certain cases, the class is drawn in to the point they barely realize they have to vacant the room thirty minutes later. 

So much for a secret document, Ron thinks while handing the parchment back to Malfoy. He does assure the other he's going to speak to his parents about it, after all where's the harm?

He can't wait to get Tom's opinion on that. 

That's wrong, isn't it? 

  
  


"That might be the first step to pull out prejudiced decrees on the school later," Hermione remarks during dinner. 

"If you can get our History teacher exorcized, I'm willing to let that pass," Pansy replies without doing so much as blinking.

Binns could bore them to death, like he definitely did with himself, if they don't pay attention to avoid getting dragged into this black hole of boredom. 

As the girls whisper back and forth to each other about pureblood-related rules that Ron doesn't care about, he turns his attention to Gabriel. 

"So, the whole hearing voices in the walls?" 

"Same old—I think someone whispered 'tasty rat' today, or I just need to stop reading about that old petrification chaos from years ago."

"Someone died, right?" Blaise mentions absentmindedly, "around the same time." 

"I like to believe it's not related, for my sanity, you know?" 

"That's fair, Dursley." 

  
  


Of course, as they start to believe the cat is only an isolated incident, a student is found petrified in a hallway. 

Exactly what they need. 

  
  



End file.
